A loud bang echoed around the rough alleys by the town limits of Louisville. The noise was followed by the cry of "Ow!" from Sheriff Jedediah Curry as he staggered awkwardly and fell over backwards.

Deputy Al Kelly tried, without complete success, to resist laughing as he helped his boss up out of the Colorado dirt. The heavy, awkward cast on Curry's left leg made balancing against the kick of the pistol tougher than the sheriff had realized.

"You really that anxious to head back to Wyoming without a job?" the Sheriff sourly asked his grinning deputy. Curry was rubbing the back of his good leg.

"No. Sorry, boss," said his deputy, wiping the habitual smirk off his face. "I was just thinkin' that it must pretty generally be somebody else yelling after you pull a trigger."

"Yeah," agreed the Kid. "You watch you don't find that out the hard way, boy."

"Yes, sir," said Kelly. The pair stood at the jury-rigged shooting range Curry had long used out behind a livery stable on the edge of Louisville. The recovering sheriff was trying to get back into practice with his Colt and finding it an awkward business.

Curry tried a different stance and let off another shot. He didn't fall over, but his control wasn't good. The shot entirely missed the can he had been aiming at. The sheriff spat into the dirt with disgust. Then he spread his legs a bit more and did some more test shots at the dented tin cans Kelly had set up on top of a stone wall for him. This worked better. The Kid reloaded his pistol. He tried, for the first time that day, a fast draw. It seemed awfully slow to him, but he heard a whistle from behind him. He turned to look into the grey eyes of the wealthy coalmine owner Jared Post.

The Kid tipped his brown hat. "Good morning, Mr. Mayor."

Post's smile was a bit stiff beneath his pale cowboy hat. "Good morning, Mr. Sheriff. That's pretty fancy shooting for a man who's been off his feet for so long. Is this your first time at the range since you broke your leg?"

"Yeah, so pardon me for being so danged slow."

"That's slow?" The mayor could hardly believe his ears.

"For him it is, Mr. Mayor," said Al Kelly.

"Considering his reputation, I believe you, Deputy," observed the mayor.

Curry tried another fast draw, which was noticeably faster. But he still sighed and shook his head in frustration. "Like molasses in January," moaned the sheriff.

The mayor said, "Sheriff, we haven't really spoken at length since you started up in your new position. Could you come over to my office at 11:00?"

Curry pulled his watch out of his pocket by a leather thong. He studied the watch and nodded. "Yes, Mr. Mayor. 11:00. I'll be there."

"Thank you, Sheriff. I look forward to it." The mayor stayed to watch another load of lead fly on its way, each shot swifter and more accurate than the one before. Then the mayor walked back to his office.

The sheriff stopped shooting and rubbed his empty gun with a clean rag and holstered it.

"So, what do you think he wants?" asked Kelly.

"Just what he says," said Curry. "He never paid me any mind before I got to be sheriff. Why should he have? Now we need to work together. I ain't worried."

"So why are you sweating?" asked the observant deputy.

"It's hot." Curry wiped his brow with his polka-dotted bandana. "Specially with this damned cast on my leg. Thing gets like an oven." So his deputy knew to back off. "Set me up some more cans and head back to the office. I'll follow you when I'm done."

A few hours later, the sheriff straightened his badge before he walked out of his office down the street toward the Mayor's office. He wiped the back of his neck with his bandana. Kelly was more right than his boss liked to admit. The very thought of consulting with a mayor made Curry nervous. He classified mayors and sheriff about the same way – as authority figures who were opposed to people like Curry and Heyes. Curry could hardly believe he had changed sides.

Curry swung down the street on his crutches. He was getting faster and his arm muscles were getting used to the new motions, but it was still slow and awkward to travel any distance of more than a block or so. So the sheriff was sweating more than usual as he made his way up the steps of the stone building. The door opened before he got to it. "Come in, Sheriff," said the Mayor's assistant. "The Mayor is expecting you."

Curry nodded, too out of breath for the moment to speak. He paused to catch his breath at the top of the stairs, then swung into the formal entryway. He was careful of the Indian throw rugs as he made his way down the hall. He found Post sitting behind a large, formal mahogany desk carved with the heads of buffaloes, wolves, big-horned sheep, and Indians.

"Have a seat, sheriff," said the mayor. "Thanks for coming."

"My pleasure," said Curry as he settled into a comfortable armchair. "What can I do for you, Mr. Mayor?"

The major said genially, "It's more what I can do for you, Mr. Curry. I hope none of our businesses are giving you any trouble while you're keeping the peace. Are the other saloons cooperating, and the pawn shops and livery stables?"

Curry didn't feel like he could relax with the mayor. "No problems, sir. Some of them don't keep it too private that they don't like my past, but nobody's made trouble about it yet. And everybody's made my deputies welcome."

"Good. Not that it's very surprising, considering your reputation."

Curry gave the mayor a very small smile. "Well, I'm glad the past is some kind of use to somebody."

The mayor smiled. "I don't really blame you for selling pictures of you and your partner. It ought to bring in good money."

Curry nodded. "Brings in some. I was mostly thinking of my partner, to tell you the truth. He's having a hard time getting a teaching post."

"That makes sense, considering the kind of job he wants. It's getting late into the summer for hiring faculty." The mayor sounded sympathetic.

"Yeah. He knows that real well."

The mayor sounded more serious now. "We in the Businessmen's Association of Louisville do wish you'd asked us about the pictures before you decided to sell them with the name of the town there in the address on them." Post pulled a picture out of his desk – one of the ones of Curry in the stage coach and Heyes outside of it – and turned it over to show the address of Christy's Place.

Curry felt a qualm. "Oh? Does it worry you gentlemen?"

"No. We think it's good for business for the whole town. But we do wish you had asked us first."

"I ain't a member," the sheriff pointed out.

"Would you like to be?" asked the mayor.

Curry nodded. "Yeah, I would. Though I don't know why you ain't asked my wife before this. She's been running Christy's Place for more than six years and not a peep out of you guys."

"Business men's – men – we don't have women members."

"Oh." Curry knew better than to kick too hard before he had his foot properly in the door

"So, can you come to our next meeting this Friday night?" asked the mayor.

"You meet at Dugan's Pub, right? Our rival?"

The major cannily bargained, "We could meet at your place now and then if you have a suitably private room."

"We do." Curry thought hurriedly of how many changes he would have to make in the hotel dining room to fit it for a formal meeting, but it would be worth it.

The mayor was taking notes on a pad. "Then we'll meet at Christy's on Friday at 8:00, if you can arrange that. There are twenty of us. Twenty-one, now."

Curry nodded. "I'll set that up with Cat. So you don't mind about having folks know about my past and that I live here, and us selling pictures?"

"Not at all. In fact, we were thinking of maybe putting up a sign – Louisville, Home Town of Kid Curry and Hannibal Heyes. We could sell postcards."

"Oh? You were gonna ask us first, right?" Curry was hardly aware of how his right hand moved toward his pistol as he said this.

"I'm asking you right now." The mayor did notice the move.

Curry studied the mayor cautiously, "I'll have to run it by my partner, but he won't like the wording. Louisville ain't our home town – we're from Kansas. And Heyes don't even live here."

"If he can't find teaching work elsewhere and he wants to move away from New York, we could see if we could make it worth his while to move here. We'd welcome him to set up shop bookkeeping or something like that," volunteered Post.

"You'd have to ask him. He's a pretty canny fellow, as I guess you know. Then you could say 'Home of Kid Curry and Hannibal Heyes.'" Curry grinned. "And my partner might like it better if the names was the other way around. He was the boss in the Devil's Hole gang, you know."

The mayor was surprised. "Oh? I thought you shared authority pretty evenly."

"We did. But when push comes to shove, and it does in a gang, somebody's got to be top dog. Heyes is older and he did most of the plans, so it was him."

"With you right behind him?"

"Damn right."

The mayor was writing on a calendar. "Alright, you'll host the Businessmen's Association meeting this Friday. Good. Now, about what's going on with law enforcement, who do you want our businessmen watching out for?"

"Well, you know about Roger Lorie?" The two men were soon deep in a discussion of the various low lifes, drifters, and trouble-makers native to Louisville and vicinity.

That evening, Jed Curry groaned wearily as he sat down at the family dinner table.

"So it's been a tiring day, has it, Jed?" asked Cat as she began to bring dinner dishes in.

"Yeah, but I'm making it. I wish you'd let me help with that. You've already got a baby to carry, you don't need all the plates, too."

"I'm managing fine, Jedediah Curry. And I'd like to know how a man on crutches could carry dishes."

"I guess it wouldn't work too well. I just hope I'm off the crutches by the time you're having a harder time carrying stuff."

Cat smiled at her husband. "You will be, dear. Move your arm, please – I've got a plate of steak and beans to put there."

"The Mayor asked us to host the next Businessmen's Association meeting here this Friday night at 8:00. He's asked me to join up."

An angry light flashed in Cat's blue eyes. "Oh, so now that they see a man in charge Christy's gets represented? You accepted?"

"Yes. Hope you don't mind. But I thought, once I'm in, I can see what I can do about women." Curry admired his fiery woman.

"I have a practical husband, it seems. Romantic and heroic, but practical. I hope you'll really bring it up."

Curry grinned. "I already brought it up. But I ain't even been to one meeting yet."

"Well, I appreciate that you got them to hold at least one meeting here. That'll help bring in business and get us some respect, I hope." Cat brought in more serving dishes.

Curry raised his voice so his wife could hear him as she came in from the kitchen. "He said we could meet here now and then. Not every time."

Cat understood. "Naturally. Dugan would throw a fit. He probably will anyhow. But thanks, Jed. You're getting to be a leader in this town."

"I'm trying."

Cat gave her husband a fond kiss and sat down to eat dinner with him.

"Just think, honey, in a few months there'll be three Curries at this table – one in a high chair."

Jed smiled at his wife. He glowed with happiness as he cut his steak.

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Heyes squinted in the brilliant summer sun as he looked down at the letter in his hand and then up at the buildings around the square of Denton, Texas. Like most county seats in Texas, this town was built around a square with a courthouse in the center. The most important businesses and civil buildings were gathered there, showing off their fine facades to all comers. Horses and wagons were hitched all around the square, indicating a thriving town with plenty of people coming and going. The courthouse, an ornate brick structure with a central tower, was the grandest building visible. Around the square he saw a fire house, a variety of false-fronted stores, an opera house, a block of law offices, a bank, and a hotel, but no building that looked likely to house a college.

The puzzled applicant walked around the square until he found the right street number in the northeast corner – 200 West Oak. The sign on the front of the brick building said B. J. Wilson Hardware. He wondered if he had the wrong address. He looked back at the letter – no, it was correct. However, Heyes observed that there were two floors of offices or apartments above the store. So that might be the answer to the mystery. He walked into the hardware store and looked briefly around the aisles crowded with varied wares from animal traps to washers, but he didn't see a staircase. Knowing he had to hurry to avoid being late, Heyes swallowed his male pride. He asked for directions from the man behind the counter. "Excuse me – I'm looking for the Texas Normal College. The address on the letter they sent me says it's in this building. Can you please help me out?"

The man behind the counter grinned, causing his curly brown mustache to curl up even more on either side. "You aren't the only one who's gotten a mite confused. They're still building the school west of town." He pointed out the door. "In the meantime, they're renting some offices up on the second and third floors here. I bet the office you want is on the second floor – Mr. Chilton's office. The stairs are through that door." He pointed down an aisle.

"I'm obliged to you," said Heyes, tipping his hat. He adjusted his glasses, hoping he looked suitably scholarly.

The clerk nodded. "No trouble. But watch out for them Indians, mister."

"Indians?" Heyes asked, pausing before he turned to go.

The hardware store employee looked up toward the floor above him uneasily. "Yeah. They got a bunch of Creeks studying there. You looking to be in classes with those boys or hire on?"

"I hoping to hire on to teach."

"Oh. Good luck to you." The man in the apron seemed to mean something larger than merely good luck at the interview, but then he turned to help a customer who was in search of sweeping compound. Heyes had no time to wait around and ask more questions. He hurried past the cow halters and rabbit feed to find the stairs that led to the second floor.

Heyes went in the door at the top of the stairs and found a tiny office with a young woman in a shirt-waist sitting behind a small, tidy desk. He straightened his tie and said, "Good afternoon, miss. I've got an appointment with Mr. Chilton."

"What's your name, please, sir?" asked the young woman as she studied a pad of paper.

"Heyes. H. Joshua Heyes," said that gentleman, holding out one of his business cards. "Sorry I'm a minute late – this place isn't easy to find."

The secretary's face fell. "Oh, dear, Mr. Heyes. We did try to get a message to you, but our telegram must have missed you. I'm afraid the position you were supposed to interview for isn't available any longer. I'm so sorry."

Heyes looked at the secretary in perturbed surprise. "What? They signed somebody already, without even speaking to me?"

"No, sir, they didn't hire anyone for the mathematics position."

The disappointed applicant said, "I'd like to see Mr. Chilton anyhow, so I can . . ."

"He isn't here, Mr. Heyes." The secretary was finding it hard to be helpful in this awkward situation.

Heyes was angry, but he tried not to take it out on an innocent office worker. "I'm not surprised he's dodging me, considering his behavior. I'd like to give him a piece of my mind. We'll, I'll do it by letter. I know it's not your fault, Miss. But I came a long way for nothing. Train fares and hotel rooms aren't free and my time is worth something."

"I truly am very sorry, sir." The secretary looked distressed. She really did seem to feel bad for the thwarted applicant.

"It's my name, I guess," said Heyes bitterly. "I'd best get used to it."

The secretary looked embarrassed. "I don't know what you mean about your name. But I promise you, this has nothing to do with you personally. We did try to send you word. But the Syndicate – the men who are funding the new school – the building is costing them more than they thought. They have to cut back on costs – including faculty. You aren't the only one who's being disappointed." She looked sadly at the latest person inconvenienced by the school's financial struggles.

Heyes sighed. "Oh, well. That's a shame. Thank you for your help, miss."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Heyes. Best of luck to you."

"Thank you," Heyes repeated.

Heyes stuffed the letter from the poverty-stricken school into his briefcase and went down the stairs. Once he got outside the hardware store, he looked around the square. He already had his train ticket back to New York, but the train wouldn't depart until the next morning. So he had a whole day to kill in this Texas town. Heyes wished he didn't have to behave so careful to avoid tarnishing his reputation. He also wished he had his partner with him. They had rarely had any trouble amusing themselves in the many western towns where they had been together over the years. Not that Heyes saw any saloons. He supposed the town must be dry, so that cut back on possibilities for entertainment. The former outlaw didn't have any hankering to sit around in a hotel room on a fine summer day, and he couldn't check into his hotel for hours yet, anyhow. They were just holding his luggage until a room would be ready. So he was at loose ends.

Heyes walked down the street, following his nose. He felt hungry after eating only an early, meager sandwich on the train. There was an enticing scent of hot spiced meat coming from somewhere. Then he heard the cry, "Hot tamale man! Hot tamale man!" Heyes hurried down the street and around the corner until he found a horse-drawn food wagon with signs for tamales, popcorn, and other snacks. A man in stereo-typical Mexican garb, including a big sombrero, was hawking the food. There were already a couple of men in line ahead of Heyes. He grinned – this brought back old times. He and his partner had enjoyed Mexican-style street food in many a south-western town. The ex-outlaw handed the man in the sombrero some coins and received in exchange a fragrant bundle of hot tamales wrapped in corn husks and brown paper.

Heyes looked around for a place to eat his second lunch. He spotted benches around the courthouse, so he crossed the street and made himself at home on a bench in the pleasant shade under a pecan tree. He gave himself over to enjoyment. The tamales were excellent, well spiced and plenty hot.

As the ex-outlaw was finishing his food, a man with thinning grey hair walked up. "Do you mind if I share your bench?" a familiar voice asked.

Heyes sprang up and wiped his hands on the brown paper wrapping his lunch. He extended a hand. "Judge Hanley! It's been a long time. I'm glad to see you. And surprised – this is a long way north of where I last stood in your court."

The smiling judge with a grey mustache extended a hand. The pair exchanged a warm handshake. "The pleasure is mine, Mr. Heyes. I moved up to Denton a few years back. I'm county judge here. "

"Congratulations, your honor. Well-deserved, I'm sure."

"Thank you. I was happy to hear that you and your partner had been released from prison so quickly in Wyoming this spring. And to know about your studies. Your work is impressive – very impressive."

Heyes grinned with pride as the judge sat down next to him on the bench. "Thank you, your honor. I've been doing my best, trying to be worthy of that amnesty you helped to get me."

"Oh, I doubt that I had any influence on the Governor's decision to grant you both amnesty, Mr. Heyes," said the judge modestly. "Your own comportment was what argued in favor of both of you."

Heyes shrugged. "I wouldn't know about what went through Governor Hogg's mind. But it was a big help not to be behind bars, your honor. You let us prove ourselves. And I certainly couldn't have studied at that level in prison."

"Well, that, I suppose, is true," said the judge. "But you should be very proud with what you've done with your opportunities. Both of you should. I admit, I was surprised to hear that you were earning a graduate degree. The man I met in that Texas jail was intelligent and honorable, but I wouldn't have guessed that he was academically inclined."

Heyes gave the judge a thoughtful look. "I wouldn't have guessed it myself, back then. It was when I was working with my wife – I mean, the woman I'd marry later – it wasn't until then that it really occurred to me. I mean, when I was a boy, I heard about college and wanted it. But I forgot all about it until I had the chance to study with Elizabeth at the Leutze Clinic. She invited me to sit in with a college class. I couldn't believe how much I loved it."

"Or how well you did?"

"Well, yes."

"So you've graduated now?"

"Yes, sir, with B. A. and an M.A. Summa cum laude." Heyes couldn't help pointing out the honor of which he was so proud.

The judge whistled over Heyes' triumph. "You and your law-man partner are doing the West proud!"

"Again, your honor, thanks to you. And I especially want to thank you for sending your written testimony to my murder trial. I know it made a lot of difference for that judge and jury to hear that story from a real judge."

"But the story itself – what you did while you were in my jail – it's quite remarkable," said Judge Hanley. "You should know that a newspaper reporter asked me about it. I told him the story. He was as startled as I was at the time."

"The Kid was kind of startled, himself," said Heyes. "But he was, well, willing to go along."

"If not exactly happy to," observed the judge.

Heyes did his best to defend his partner, "Well, your honor, he didn't really know what he was going along with."

The judge grinned at the Heyes from under his grey mustache, "I must say, I really am glad that you fellows bore out my opinion of you. I don't mind telling you, I sweated some, thinking that Mr. Curry might not actually be as much in the habit of honest behavior as he told me."

"We were both working at it," said the darker ex-outlaw with a nod. "Not that we would have had much chance to keep working without your help. Thank you very much for what you did for us when we were in jail, and for me when I was on trial. I'm very much in your debt."

"No need to thank me. I was just telling the truth. What brings you to Denton, Mr. Heyes?" asked the kindly judge.

"I was here to apply to teach at the new normal college, but they pulled out. No money for new faculty, it sounds like. Unless they just decided they didn't want to waste money on me. I understand Governor Hogg isn't very fond of outlaws or even former outlaws, so maybe he made things hot for the normal school."

The judge shook his head. "It's true that the Governor doesn't feel any warmth toward you and your partner, Mr. Heyes, but I don't think he needed to exert pressure on the school. No, it's no secret that the normal school here really is very short of funds. The construction of the building is taking everything they have and more. So obviously, you're still in search of an academic position."

"Yes, sir. I've got a number of applications in and have done interviews in Utah and Wyoming. I'm just waiting to hear back and hoping for another interview or two. But it is late in the summer."

"So, you want to return from New York City to the West?"

"My amnesty documents require me to apply out West. But it's what I'd want to do in any case. I'd like to move my family back out to my home part of the country."

"Oh, so you have a family now?"

"I married my fiancé – Elizabeth Warren, just after I got amnesty and Columbia University granted me my degrees. And we're going to be fostering a boy I met in prison. I think he has promise."

"Promise. Yes, promise," said the judge thoughtfully. "That's what I thought I saw in you, too, Mr. Heyes. It sounds like I might have been right. I hope you and your wife and your foster son will do well. Somehow, it sounds like you might have quite a bit in common with that boy." Judge Hanley gave Heyes a friendly wink. "I hear good things about your partner, as well."

"Yes. I'm sure you know that Jed's a sheriff now in Colorado. Maybe you haven't heard that he's married and they have a baby on the way," Heyes happily informed the judge.

Judge Hanley was delighted. "Oh, that's excellent news. Please do give him my best when you see him."

"I'll do that. I'll have to write to him, though. I don't know when I'll get to see him in person again. I mean, since I don't know where I'll be working. I've got a little bookkeeping job in New York, but it's not enough to live on there. I'm afraid my wife is the one with a good job. Most folks aren't as trusting toward me as you were."

"Are you taking the train back to New York?"

"Yes. Nothing goes out until tomorrow, they tell me. So I'm stuck here with nothing to do in the meantime. I mean, nothing except to read a book I brought along and to take notes on any ideas that come to me. But it seems a waste of a nice day. Can't be over 95 degrees even in the sun."

The judge understood all too well about the usual torrid Texas weather. "Indeed, it's almost chilly, by Texas summer standards. Well, I can't keep you company this afternoon, but here comes a man who might be willing to." The judge raised his voice to call over a man in coveralls. He had long black hair in braids. "Jerome! Do you have a moment?"

"Yes, sir, your honor," said Jerome, walking briskly over to the bench where Heyes and Judge Hanley sat. The two got to their feet to speak with the newcomer.

"Mr. Heyes, meet Jerome Red Battle. He takes care of the courthouse. But we can't afford to pay him full time, so he's off this afternoon. Jerome, this is my old friend Joshua Heyes. I met him back when I lived down in Junction City. He helped us to catch some murdering bank robbers."

Jerome reached out a hand with just a hint of hesitancy. Not every white man would shake the hand of an Indian. But Heyes reached out his hand without hesitation. "Glad to meet you, Mr. Red Battle."

The judge said, "Jerome, Mr. Heyes had an interview for work cancelled today, so he has nothing to do this afternoon. He might enjoy some music and other entertainment, perhaps? Perhaps you can recommend a club?" Hanley looked at Heyes, who smiled and nodded. That sounded appealing to him.

"Are you thirsty, Mr. Heyes?" asked Jerome.

"I'd enjoy a beer." said Heyes. "But isn't this town dry?"

"Yes," said the young janitor. "But if you're a member of a private club, you can get whatever you like to drink. That's how the law works."

"I haven't been here in Denton since before Hank Underwood burned down the courthouse in '75, so I'm not a member of any club," said Heyes.

"Oh, I don't think that would be a problem, Mr. Heyes," said the judge with a wink. "A small fee would do it, wouldn't it Jerome?"

"It would, and perfectly legally," said Jerome with a smile. "And then you can spend the afternoon enjoyably without a care."

"Did you know Underwood?" asked Jerome with a curious look at Heyes.

"Our paths crossed once or twice. I didn't know him well, or his pal Sam Bass," said Heyes.

Jerome stared hard at Heyes. "They caused a lot of trouble around here in the '70s."

"I know. Like I say, I didn't know them well. I didn't want to. They were rough boys with hot tempers," said Heyes, looking cautiously at the judge and Jerome. Bass and Underwood had been very infamous in these parts nearly twenty years before. Heyes wasn't eager to have his past get around this town. There might be people here with a grudge against Hannibal Heyes.

Jerome took his new acquaintance down the street and around a couple of corners to a club called the Scissortail, marked by a sign with that bird painted on it. The janitor told his guest, "They've got good beer, whiskey, poker, billiards, girls, and the best Mexican guitar in the county. I clean for them in the afternoons, so I know they're good. Will that do you, Mr. Heyes?"

"Sounds good to me," said Heyes. "Thanks for the recommendation. And you can drop the Mister. My friends just call me Heyes." Jerome went in the door with Heyes.

"Boss, this is Joshua Heyes. He'd like to join the club," said Jerome to the man behind the counter in the front room of the saloon.

The head man studied Heyes of a moment. "So you're recommending him for membership?"

"Me and Judge Hanley, Mr. Worth. The judge knew Mr. Heyes when he was in Junction City. Said he helped the law with catching some outlaws." Jerome spoke casually, knowing that no deep investigation would take place.

"That sounds very satisfactory, Mr. Heyes," said the head man. "If you can just fill out this form and give us two dollars, we'll draw you up a membership and you'll be free to take advantage of all our amenities."

"Thanks," said Heyes. He hated to fill out forms for any reason. He filled in his name as H. Joshua Heyes, hoping it wouldn't be questioned. The manager didn't even glance at the form.

The former outlaw went to the bar. He hesitated for an agonizing moment. Why not order a whiskey and really enjoy himself? They carried his favorite brand. It had been so long. Would it really be so bad to have just one whiskey? He would be able to stop, surely he would, this time. This one time. Heyes fought silently with himself for a moment. He saw Beth's face in his mind and found the resolve to avoid the trouble that whiskey would surely have brought. He ordered a fine Mexican beer instead.

Heyes sat down to listen to the Mexican guitar player who worked with an accordion player and a male vocalist. Heyes had missed the Mexican music he had often heard in past years. It felt good to just sit and listen for pleasure in the shadowy saloon without having to look over his shoulder for sheriffs, bounty hunters, and rival outlaws. A firm shake of his head discouraged the working girl who wanted to sit next to Heyes. Eventually, Heyes got a pad out of his briefcase and made a couple of mathematical notes, but he couldn't concentrate on it. He was enjoying the warm atmosphere of the café and the fiery playing of the guitarist. The tenor singer sounded like a native Mexican who knew just how to sell a love song. It had been many years since Heyes had heard the sentimental Mexican love songs he had heard so often as a young outlaw. He sipped his beer and felt nostalgic about his misspent youth.

As the band set down their instruments to take a break, Heyes heard the clack of pool balls from a back room. He took his beer and went back to watch the play. He found a back table near the green felt table. He watched a few casual games at the lone table in the place. Then there were a couple of tense games played by scar-faced black-haired Mexican and a blond American. They were very evenly matched. Both could sink multiple bank shots with ease. They were playing 8-ball, a game Heyes had seen before. As a specialist in trigonometry, he couldn't help but be interested in the game's precise play of angles and forces.

The Mexican, whose name was Jorge, judging from the yells of his opponent and his fans, pocketed the black eight ball to a flurry of applause and whistles from a little group of lookers-on. The Mexican picked up his winnings from the edge of the table and went to the front to get a drink. The defeated blond man looked around for another opponent. The onlookers shook their heads and walked away. "Hey, I never could beat you," said one of the men before turning toward the bar.

Heyes got up to go back out front himself, now that the excitement was past. "Hey, you been watching close. You play?" Paul, the losing player, asked Heyes.

"No. I like to watch, but I've never touched a cue." said Heyes.

"You want to learn?" asked Paul, a lean blond with sparkling eyes.

Heyes hesitated. "What are you gonna charge me?"

Paul showed his uneven teeth in a grin. "Nothing. I'll teach you for the fun of it, if you'll play me one game for a dollar after I show you some shots."

Heyes nodded. "Alright. One dollar to learn billiards. I can see you're pretty good. I've watched enough back in New York to know that."

"You're not from New York City, not with that accent," said Paul, studying the spectator he was going to teach.

"No, I'm from Kansas. But I've been living in New York the last few years," Heyes was reluctant to reveal too much about himself, but this little bit surely couldn't hurt.

"What do they call you?" asked Paul the billiards player.

"Joshua."

Paul shook Heyes' hand. "Alright, first chalk up your cue. You know the rules?"

"I know 8-ball. There's a lot of other games I haven't seen played enough to pick up. In 8-ball, you sink all of either the solid or the striped balls, then the eight ball, to win. Call your shots. Don't sink the cue ball. Don't sink the other player's balls. That it?"

"Yeah. Here, let me show you how to hold the cue."

Paul patiently showed Heyes the fine points of holding the cue and reaching various parts of the table. He showed him how to break and how to make several kinds of short and longer shots. He watched with a practiced eye as Heyes tried out each new skill. It took a few attempts for Heyes to begin sinking shots dependably. Soon, he was finding it easy to make simple shots with just the cue ball and a single ball being sunk. Then, he got more instruction and soon was trying banks off of the cushions and combinations between multiple balls. Paul watched carefully, giving his student a hint now and then. "You're a damn quick study for a guy who's never held a cue before. And you're awful good with your hands. How do you make your living, Joshua?"

"Right now, I'm just doing some bookkeeping. But I've got two degrees in math and I want to teach college. I was here to interview at that new normal college, but they pulled out. No money for a math teacher, they said."

"Oh? What kind of math?"

"I can do almost anything, but trigonometry is my specialty – especially applied to ballistics and explosives."

Paul nodded. "I never heard of trigo – what did you say?"

"Trigonometry. The mathematics of triangles. Or any type of angles, really. You use it to figure up how to aim and how much force to use with cannons, guns, explosions and that kind of stuff."

"Or billiard balls?"

Heyes only laughed softly. This game was right down his alley and his teacher was starting to realize it.

"Alright, let me show you how to keep the cue ball from following the ball you're sinking down the hole on straight shots. If you sink the cue ball, that's called a scratch and it'll mean the other guy gets to shoot. So to avoid that you put spin on the cue ball – it's called English."

"Like this?" Heyes picked up his cue and set up a straight shot into a side pocket. He lined up the shot with care, making sure not to use too much force. He struck the white cue ball just slightly below center. The cue ball neatly struck the brown seven ball. The white cue ball stopped dead as the seven ball went into the pocket.

"Or this?" Heyes set up a longer straight shot into a corner pocket. This time he struck the cue ball a little lower. When it hit the blue striped ten ball he was putting in the pocket, the cue ball kissed the ten and backed up a few inches.

Paul whistled. "I thought you said you didn't know how to play this game!"

Heyes said, "I know how it works – I've just never done it before."

Paul chuckled. "Whatever that trigonometry stuff is, you ought to teach me some. Maybe I'll beat that arrogant bastard Jorge next time. But this time, I'm playing you. Rack 'em up, Joshua."

"Yes, teacher," said Heyes with a grin. He put a dollar bill down on the edge of the table and Paul matched it with his own bill.

"Let's flip a coin to see who breaks," said Paul, taking a quarter out of his pocket. "You flip?"

"Suits me," said Heyes, carefully keeping a straight face. Paul called heads in the air. The flip came up tails on Heyes' practiced wrist.

The novice player herded the balls into the triangular rack, made sure the black eight-ball was in the center and the other balls in order around it, then lifted it carefully to avoid moving any of the balls. He lined up the cue ball, put some blue chalk on the tip of his cue, and shot the cue ball hard into the lead ball in the triangle. The loud break sent balls rolling rapidly across the table in all directions. The yellow one-ball went into a side pocket.

"Good going, Joshua," said Paul proudly. "Sink as many of those solid color balls from one to seven as you can, then put down your cue and watch me clear the table."

"Not until I'm done, teach," said Heyes. He fell silent as he sighted a simple straight-in shot. Then he called the shot, even though this one was obvious. "Seven ball in the side pocket."

Paul nodded. Heyes took his time, not wanting to mess up such a simple shot. He did it perfectly, putting English on the cue ball to get it to back up. This set up a simple combination shot. "Three ball in the corner pocket – there." Heyes pointed with the cue. Paul nodded silently, riveted by the performance of his student.

A couple of other men quietly came to watch the neophyte. Heyes heard one whisper to another. "It's his first game – or he says it is."

Heyes carefully figured the angles of the combination shot in his head. He looked at the table as if he had a giant protractor over it, carefully calculating the exact angle and reverse angle for each strike of ball on ball and ball, calculating the amount of force and English needed. He held his breath. With click, click, click, the cue struck the six, the six ball took off at the precise angle Heyes wanted, and the six put the three into the corner pocket. Heyes ignored the soft applause of Paul and the two spectators. The master poker player was entranced by this new game and what he could do with it. It might have been invented for him.

Heyes studied the new arrangement of the balls. He had a simple but long diagonal shot. "Six in the corner pocket," called Heyes quietly. He set it up. This would take more force, but too much would sink the cue ball and give control of the table to his opponent. If that happened, Heyes would certainly lose. Why did he care so much? It was only a dollar at stake. Nobody here even knew who he really was. Heyes lined up the shot with care, calculating the force and English precisely, feeling it in his hands before he even moved. His stick struck the cue ball. It hit the six ball smartly and stopped dead. The six ball rolled across the long, green table, slowing, slowing, and nearly dying just as the ball dropped into the pocket. Now there were more people applauding.

The next shot was harder. The striped green fourteen-ball was lined up almost directly between the cue ball and the only reasonable shot at a solid ball. Heyes would have to do a bank shot around his opponent's ball. He calculated the angles in his head, figuring it up with the actual numbers again and again. It was right. It had to be. He almost forgot to actually say what he was going to do. "Four ball in the corner pocket." He pointed. Paul nodded.

The spectators seemed to hold their breaths as Heyes drew back the cue. The cue ball struck the cushion precisely where Heyes had calculated, careened off at the precise reverse angle, hit another ball, which hit the four, which sailed into the corner pocket. The applause was louder yet. Heyes tried to ignore the fact that he now had as many spectators following his every move as Jorge had had forty-five minutes before.

The bank shot for the two was just as hard and Heyes took his time sinking it. The five ball into the side pocket was easy.

"Where are you going to put the eight-ball?" asked Paul.

Heyes was startled to realize that he was single shot away from winning his first billiards game, never having let his opponent even touch his cue. This was, he knew, reasonably common with very practiced players, but never to be assumed. And he couldn't assume the win now. The eight ball was a short bank shot from a corner pocket or a long, complex combination shot from a side pocket. Heyes studied the table and considered. Finally, he announced. "Eight-ball in the side pocket."

"That's the harder shot," Paul stated flatly.

"Not with the uneven cushions on this table," commented Heyes. "You may know how each cushion will do for you on a bank shot, but I don't. So I'm not going to depend on them. I'd rather depend on the balls that I know are perfect spheres."

Paul smiled. He had taught this man well, but there are things only experience will teach. How did the man already know about the relatively properties of different tables just from watching games?

Heyes lined up the shot and figured the angles in his head. "Twenty-two degrees . . ." he accidentally began to actually recite the angles aloud and stopped himself. Paul smiled wider. He had a serious mathematician here who was applying his gifts in a new way. But no matter what he had figured up in his head, he would have to execute it with his hands and his cue.

Heyes lined up the shot, using his cue to trace the intended path of the ball, making sure he was reading the long angle correctly. His cue hit the twelve-ball, which cracked sharply into the eleven, which in turn more softly struck the eight-ball. The black ball rolled softly to the lip of the pocket and seemed to hesitate. Had Heyes hit the shot too softly? No – it fell in. The soft sound of the ball landing in the pocket was lost in shouts and applause from a dozen spectators.

"Congratulations, Joshua," said Paul, extending his hand. "I never got so much fun out of losing a dollar. If you ever decide to leave math, you can make a decent living taking guys at billiards."

Heyes shook his teacher's hand and grinned happily as he scooped up the two dollar bills from the side of the table. "What do you mean, leave math? That is math in action. Billiards is fun, but math is what it's all about, for me. I might play billiards now and again for fun. But not too much – it might not look great for a professor." He winked at his teacher. "Let me buy you a beer."

As the two men leaned on the bar, Paul asked, "Come on, what did you do before you went to school?"

"That, sir, is none of your business. It's what I do next that counts." Heyes finished his second beer, tipped the bar tender, and put his business card on the table in front of Paul. Joshua nodded to his teacher and left. He was attracting too much attention here. Fun was fun, but he hoped he hadn't lost any future jobs in the process of learning a new skill and winning a dollar.

Paul studied the card as the mysterious Joshua left. He puzzled over what that first H. in the name on the card might stand for. Jerome joined Joshua as he left the Scissortail. "Let me walk you back to your hotel, Heyes. It can get a little rough back around here."

"I can handle myself, but I'll be glad of the company, Jerome." Heyes and the Indian fell into step.

"So, you figured out billiards in a hurry," The Indian studied his companion as they walked along in the gathering shadows. "You always that good with your hands? They do say you are."

"Who's they?" asked Heyes with a strong flavor of hostility in his voice.

"Nobody, nobody, sir," said Jerome fearfully, backing away from the man walking next to him.

Heyes sighed. "I'm sorry, Jerome," said the former outlaw. "I didn't mean to threaten you. But when you've been on the run that long, it's hard to know it's over – to relax and realize you're finally safe."

"I understand, Mr. Heyes," said Jerome. "Or I would, if I was ever safe."

Heyes supposed this understanding, and lack, was not his new friend's being any kind of criminal, but simply from being subject to the unrelenting prejudice that all Indians suffered.

"So, I guess I'm right about your first name and how you know the judge."

"Maybe you are right, and maybe not," said Heyes as they reached his hotel. "Thanks, Jerome. Good-night." The former outlaw tipped his hat and walked in the front door of his hotel.

Historical Notes – the Texas Normal College to which Heyes applied in Denton, Texas, is now the University of North Texas. It was founded in 1890 by a syndicate of ten Denton business men. The old main building, a large brick building west of town, was built in 1891, the year in which this story is set. It no longer stands. I don't know if the building had been completed by July, when I have Heyes arrive for his interview, or not. It is true that the school originally had temporary headquarters on the second floor of the B. J. Wilson Hardware Store building at 200 W. Oak Street (now Thomas' Ethan Allen furniture store), at the north east corner of the main square of the town. It is also a fact that the fledgling school had serious money problems in its early years and that it had 30 Creek Indians among its first class of students. Also, Joshua C. Chilton was, indeed, the head of the school for its first two years.

The courthouse described is the one that was current before the historic old one that stands in Denton at the center of the square now. That courthouse, now a museum, was not built until 1896. The historic Wright Opera House was built from the bricks of the courthouse Heyes would have seen on his visit. The opera house Heyes would have seen was built in the 1880s where the Fine Arts Theater, at 115 N. Elm Street, stands on the west side of the square. It is, indeed, said that Henry Underwood, associate of the notorious outlaw Sam Bass, burned down the courthouse that stood on the square before the one Heyes would have seen in 1891. As you can tell, I've enjoyed researching the town of Denton, Texas.

The description of the items for sale in the hardware story is inspired by a real hardware store in Maryland. The store, now closed, dated back to before the Civil War. When I was there many years ago, I particularly remember being struck by their selling sweeping compound – something I had never heard of. They also had dance floor powder – a rare item these days.