"Watch the office, Al," said Kid Curry, running a hand through his sweat-darkened hair. "I'm gonna go walk a patrol."

"You sure you're up to that, boss?" asked the deputy, looking up from studying a law book. He pushed a long blonde lock out of his eyes and inspected the sheriff, who was struggling to get up on his crutches.

"Don't you tell me what to do, boy!" growled Curry. Then he took a deep breath, internally counted to ten, and smiled at the younger man. "Sorry, Al – this summer heat's putting me out of temper. If I don't try to go too awful far, I expect I can manage. I'm purely climbing the walls hanging around this oven of an office while you and Billy get all the fun."

"That's alright, boss. I don't mean to get like a mother hen with you. I expect Mrs. Curry does that just fine," said Al Kelly with one of his smart-aleck grins.

"You watch what you say about my wife!" barked Jed Curry as he went out the door. He wasn't going to apologize again.

It was a hot, sunny, humid summer afternoon that was unusual at the high altitude of this Colorado town. The sheriff made his slow way on crutches down Second Street. The red dust stirred up by his labored progress clung to his sweat-dampened pants and shirt. Curry tried to push some of the dust away and just wound up putting reddish smears on this shirt. He paused in front of the Red Devil Saloon, with its sign showing its name sake with his hooves and a pointed tail in the traditional manner, but with the addition of a six-gun on his hip and a cowboy hat through which his horns protruded. The sheriff stood for a minute, listening to the sounds from inside the popular saloon - the soft murmur of talking, the tinkle of the out of tune piano, and the click of poker chips. Everything seemed routine and quiet. But the local lawman thought he'd have a look into the place, anyhow. Trouble often started there, as it did in any place that served liquor.

As Curry limped in on his crutches, thumping over the worn wooden floor, the mustachioed bar tender called out, "Hey, sheriff, you want a beer?"

"No thanks, Bill," said Curry, taking off his hat for a moment to wipe the back of his neck with his polka-dotted bandana. "I'm on duty."

"Ah, come on. One degree hotter and Old Nick will have to go down home to cool off," said Bill. "Beer's on me."

"Well, don't tell Cat I had a drink in somebody else's establishment," said the Kid with a wink as he went to lean on the bar. "But I'm so hot, you could fry an egg on my hat. Pour me one, Bill."

That got a general laugh from the company around the bar. Bill drew the famous sheriff a frothy beer from the tap. Curry had barely started to down the beer when a dark-haired man in a black hat walked in the bat-wing doors and leaned on the bar next to the sheriff. The regulars grew quiet as they noticed that the stranger wore his gun tied down. The sheriff eyed this man in his prime who had the look of a professional gunfighter. Curry didn't recognize the man, so he wondered if the newcomer had any idea of who was standing next to him.

The black-hatted stranger warily glanced at the man in the badge. He spoke in a low tone, letting no one but the Kid hear him. "You're Kid Curry, ain't you?"

"I keep the peace here," answered Jed Curry. "That's all you need to know."

"Uh huh," said the newcomer. "Well, there's something else that you ought to know, Sheriff Curry."

"And what might that be?" asked the sheriff, then took another pull at his beer.

"You know a couple of rough boys named Jasper and Hamilton Teasdale? Up in Wyoming." said the stranger out the side of his mouth.

"No. Never met any such men." That was true enough. The Kid wasn't going to admit to having heard tell of the younger brothers of the evil outlaws who had been Heyes and Curry's bitterest rivals. These younger Teasdales were earning a reputation as bad as their older brothers had once enjoyed. They had nearly killed Lom Trevors, forcing him to hang up his badge. But did they know who had killed their older brothers Grover and Aloysius? The Jews of Hester Street had done everything they could to keep it a secret, since the killing had saved a grandmother and a baby from their community. Curry had no idea of whether that word had gotten from the lower east side of New York City all the way out to Wyoming.

The stranger growled, "Yeah, well, Curry they know who you are. And what you did. You and that loud-mouthed partner of yours."

"Do tell." He was playing it cool on the outside, but now Curry was sweating worse than ever. If those younger Teasdales knew what he had done to their notorious murdering older brothers, his happy life with amnesty might not go on much longer. But maybe that shooting wasn't what this stranger was referring to. The sheriff couldn't be sure.

"They might just have heard about that cast on your leg, and how slow your draw is these days. And how long it's been since Heyes did anything but studying."

Jed Curry let a brooding silence be his answer. If he bragged on his draw or Heyes' skills, it wouldn't impress anyone or keep those killers away. Demonstration spoke much louder than words. He wasn't happy that so much of his and his partner's private business seemed to be public knowledge.

The stranger's low voice went on, "They tell me you ratted out Luke Benton. Or maybe it was Heyes did it. Who you boys gonna' spill your guts to the law about next?"

Now Curry was really in a quandary. If he told the truth, he might be signing Heyes' death warrant. And if he lied and claimed the credit, he might make things worse for himself and his pregnant wife.

The Sheriff worked his famous poker face for all it was worth. "I uphold for the law. I ain't out to please men like the Teasdales, or Luke Benton, or you. Finish that beer and move along, if you know what's good for you."

The dark-haired stranger spat into a nearby spittoon with a ringing ping. "Oh, I'll move along. You just remember what I said, Sheriff."

"Who is it talkin' so big?" asked Curry, sounding cool and authoritative, "You gonna own up to a name?"

The black-hatted stranger didn't answer the question, but he turned to fix a fierce gaze on the famous gunman with the star on his chest. And yet, though Jed Curry didn't learn the stranger's name, he did learn something he thought might be nearly as valuable. The gunman had a couple of very useful identifying marks that might well show up on a poster someplace.

The black-hatted stranger downed the rest of his beer in one swallow, wiped his mouth on his sleeve, and walked out of the saloon. He mounted up and rode off. Curry noticed that he was riding north out of town.

Curry took his time finishing his own beer. Then he headed back to his office, sweating all the way in the summer heat. The sheriff settled into his chair. "Billy, anything happen while I was gone?" he asked his deputy.

The black-haired deputy shook his head. "No, boss. Things have been nice and quiet. What about around town?"

Curry wiped the back of his neck with his bandana. "Oh, nothing much. But tell me something – when you was working up in Wyoming, did you ever run into or hear tell of a dark-haired man about twenty-five years old now, with a mole on his left cheek and a bullet scar on the right side of his neck? I'm guessing he ran with the Teasdale brothers – the young ones."

Billy Healy stared at his boss. "No. I don't know who he might be. Did he give you reason to think he was trouble?"

"Aside of trying to threaten me without saying enough for me to lock him up, no. He dropped some names, but he didn't give his own."

Healy looked worried. "He threatened you? One thing we know – he's stupid, or reckless. Is he still in town? Maybe I'd recognize him."

"Nah, he delivered his happy little message and rode on up the north road at a pretty good clip."

A similar question asked of Al Kelly an hour later yielded the same result – none. The Kid sat and considered this. An outlaw would keep such threats private from anyone for fear of seeming scared. And a friend or husband wouldn't want to worry those he loved. And yet, what if the implied threat came to something? Finally, after the late summer sun set, Curry sent Al Kelly out on patrol while Billy Healy was sleeping to be ready to take the night shift. The sheriff picked up his telephone receiver and placed a call. It took a while to get the operators to make all the connections across the country.

Finally, Jed heard the phone he was after being picked up.

"This is the Westmoreland residence," said a familiar elderly female voice.

Curry answered, "Mrs. Westmoreland? This is Sheriff Curry. I'm sorry to bother you again. Could you please see if my partner can come to the telephone?"

"Of course, Mr. Curry. I'll fetch Mr. Heyes directly. I hope your leg is recovering well."

Curry nodded, even though the woman on the other end of the line couldn't see him. "Yes, thank you, ma'am. I'm beholden to you."

A few minutes went by, then Jed heard a louder sound on the staticky line. "Hello Heyes! It's Jed."

"Yeah. What's wrong, partner?" Heyes, like most people in those days, immediately assumed a telephone call across the country meant trouble.

"A guy I didn't know from Adam came up to me in a saloon and as much as said that the Teasdales, the young ones, are mad at me and you. He didn't say they was gonna do something about it, but why else speak up at all? He didn't tell me who he was or what might between him and those killers. He made out like it was about Benton, but you know, if could have been something more. Maybe they didn't even tell him about the real thing back of it." On such an insecure instrument as a telephone, the Kid didn't dare to mention the double killing or even Heyes' turning in Luke Benton in explicit terms. He knew Heyes would appreciate this.

Even with the poor quality of 1,600 mile connection on a primitive telephone, Curry could hear that his partner was troubled. The man in New York asked, "Couldn't you lock him up for making threats? Or aiding or abetting or something?

"Nah, he didn't really say nothing I could get him on. He rode off north. Was a young guy, not more than maybe 25 or so. Had dark hair, dark eyes, wore a black hat, had a mole on his cheek and bullet scar on his neck. I don't expect you ever saw him or heard tell of him."

"No, but you knew that. If he's that young, he wasn't much more than a boy when I came out East. You must have asked Al and Billy about him already."

"Yeah."

Heyes suggested, "Why don't you send a telegram up Lom's way, Jed?"

"I don't want to send trouble with the message. Somebody might be watching the offices here abouts."

The darker partner offered, "Alright – I'll send him a message. That do you?"

"Thanks, Heyes. How're you and Beth and the folks there?" Curry asked.

"Hot as blazes. And busy getting stuff ready for my next trip. I've got to take the train north day after tomorrow so I'll get up to Harvard for that interview on Friday morning."

"Oh, maybe you don't have time to telegraph?"

Heyes made sure not to give his partner more reasons for concern. "Sure I do. No problem."

"Alright. Thanks, partner. I owe you."

"It's no trouble. I'll get in touch again tomorrow night so you can tell me if you heard from Lom. Take care, Jed. And give my love to Cat."

"Yeah, you too, Heyes. Good luck on the job. Give Beth my love."

"Yeah. Bye."

"Bye."

Two receivers clicked. Heyes didn't tell Beth anything about the call. But she couldn't help noticing how he tossed and turned in bed. Cat noticed the same about her own husband. Both wives tried to blame the heat and worried that they might be wrong.

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In the morning, Heyes started a long day of bookkeeping at the sweatshop. It was a stiflingly hot, humid day in the close confines of the office. Even rolling his sleeves up as far as they would go didn't keep his white shirt from getting soaked with sweat even before his lunch break. The salty liquid kept running into his eyes and dripping onto the ledger book pages. The ex-outlaw was learning about the challenges of a regular desk job.

"How is it going with you, Mr. Heyes?" asked the bookkeeper's boss, Mr. Levy. "Can you keep all the numbers from melting together?"

"Just about," said Heyes briefly, not smiling at his boss's little witticism. He was in the middle of adding up a long column of figures. They were small, but there were a lot of them. "A hundred twenty-nine, a hundred forty-three, a hundred seventy, two hundred twelve," muttered the bookkeeper to himself. Then he figured it again to make sure it had it right. He nodded to himself and wrote down the sum in the right spot, then stopped and wiped his brow again under his eye shade.

The elderly clothing factory owner watched his infamous employee for a few minutes. "So, you really used to open safes and steal people's money? I find it very hard to believe."

Heyes turned around on his stool. "Yes, sir, I did. I find it a little hard to believe myself, sometimes. It's a long time ago, now. I'm glad to be making an honest living at last."

"Well, I know you need more money where you will stay working. But for now, we try to treat you right. You stop and get some water to drink, Mr. Heyes. There is no batch of angry law people riding after you, now." The old man in the black yarmulke handed his employee a glass of water.

Heyes pushed back his visor and took a long drink before he set the glass down on his desk next to the dust-stained red ledger book he now knew so well. "Thank you, Mr. Levy. Yes, I'm glad to be able to work without being chased these days. It got to be very annoying sometimes."

Levy laughed. "Annoying, you say? I suppose so. If men shoot at you perhaps more than annoying. And I had best stop annoying you now and let you be getting back to work or you might shoot at me. You were away from home a long time and many things happened with the money."

"So I'm finding, and getting it all put in order," said Heyes, pushing his eye shade back into place and leaning over his work again. His thoughts turned to Bob Cratchet in A Christmas Carol. The former thief felt for Scrooge's clerk more than he ever had before. While he was grateful for this job and his kindly employer, in some ways he found dealing with these dull columns of repetitious numbers a far more disagreeable task than riding away from posses. But the underemployed former outlaw would never tell that to Mr. Levy. His boss was a nice man, and Heyes needed every dime he was paid.

The busy bookkeeper and job applicant found time at the end of the day to walk over to Columbia University, hoping that a friend or two might be there still. Heyes knew there were unlikely to be new books or journals there during the summer, but he still went to visit the library just in case. The soaring ceiling with its gothic arches made the enormous hall feel positively cool after the close office. Heyes went to loiter in the math section. He saw a book that had been checked out the last time he had wanted it, which had been back not long before his dramatic arrest in Central Park. As the new graduate pored over the volume at the one of the long tables, he felt a presence behind him. Even now, months after getting amnesty, the feeling of someone watching him from behind made him nervous.

Heyes turned around to find Karen Horn standing close behind him, gazing adoringly at him. She turned instantly scarlet and turned to go. "Hello, Miss Horn," said Heyes in the soft tones a student used in a library.

"Hello, Mr. Heyes. How are you?" The young woman obviously still had a crush on her ex-outlaw professor. Having been severely berated the last time she had seen him, she spoke very cautiously now.

Heyes gave the girl a wry smile. "Hot and tired, but not too bad. I'd be better if I could find a full time position. How are you?"

"I'll graduate at the end of the summer and go back to Texas. Maybe I can find a school teaching job there."

"Best of luck to you." Heyes really did mean that. Since he wouldn't be in Texas, it would be a good place for Karen Horn.

"And to you." She paused, then went on recklessly, "Have women always fallen in love with you?"

Heyes cocked his head and stared at the strawberry blonde Texan in surprise for asking this bold, mocking question. "What am I supposed to say to that that won't sound arrogant?"

"You're supposed to tell the truth. People who aren't outlaws do that, you know." There was a bitter edge to the words, as if she was trying to hurt the man who had caused her such pain.

Heyes let some irritation creep into his voice. "Hah! Sometimes they do, and sometimes they don't. I've learned that. Honest folks – that's a relative phrase. And yes, women have always fallen for me, as far back as I can remember. Not that I didn't fall for them sometimes, too. There – that arrogant enough for you?"

"Yes," said Karen Horn. She turned on her heel and walked away. A couple of other readers turned and stared after her, obviously having been listening in to the conversation.

Heyes felt hotter than ever.

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Finally, Hannibal Heyes felt cool. The fresh wind felt wonderful, but far from calm. There was a fierce clash of thunder and a succession of flashes of lighting, almost simultaneously. The train heading toward Boston had not long left New York City when the heavens opened. The grey skies poured water all over New England for hours as they went north. Now the train was speeding along through the salt marshes of Connecticut. There was water gleaming on both sides of the tracks. The rain had let up just minutes before, but seemed likely to start again any time. An osprey hovered over the pool on the right, nearest Heyes, before diving toward the water. As it rose again with a thrashing fish clasped in its talons, Heyes felt the train moving strangely. It seemed to be sliding, twisting with a screeching sound. Then the train car was tilting farther and farther to Heyes' side of the train until the water of the marsh was only inches away from the window. Luggage from racks across the way tumbled toward him. There was the sound of screaming and the people from the seats opposite loomed overhead. Heyes only had time to think, "Oh no! Not like Beth's mother!" There was a grinding crash and everything went black.

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Heyes opened his eyes. He was lying in a soft, comfortable bed with clean, white sheets and a heavy quilt pulled up to his chin. He stretched and moaned softly.

"Mister, how are you?" asked a kind female voice.

"Uh," Heyes moaned again and opened his eyes. He blinked and looked up at the pretty young brunette standing over him, holding a lamp. Outside the circle of lamplight, everything was dark. He could see enough of the table next to the bed and the bible verse framed on the wall nearby to suppose that he was in a modest home.

"Are you alright?" she asked again.

For a while, Heyes just blinked and shook his head, trying to clear away the dull feeling. "Don't bother him, honey," said an older female voice from behind the young woman. "He's not well at all. Look at that awful bruise on his head."

"No, I'm alright, I think," said the slowly waking man cautiously. "I've got a nasty headache and a couple of aches on my arms and legs and back, but considering what I think must have just happened to me, that's not so bad. No broken bones that I can tell. Did the train go off the rails?" The ex-outlaw was profoundly grateful to have the power of speech – he had been worried about losing it again when he first woke up.

The young woman set the lamp down on the table next to Heyes' bed. "Yes. A lot of folks were hurt, like you. There may even have been some killed. There's no hospital around here, so we in the village took the injured in. You seem to be all in one piece, so far as we can tell."

"Thank you," said Heyes. "I'm glad to be among the living. I'm sorry not everyone was so lucky."

The young woman smiled. "We're glad to help. If it was us hurt, we'd want somebody to help, right enough." Heyes noticed that her dress was neat and clean, but there was a carefully mended spot on the sleeve that showed in the lamplight.

"I suppose so, but I'm beholden to you anyhow. The village you say – what village is this?" Heyes rubbed his sore head and tried to remember.

"Black Rock," answered the grey haired lady who was now standing beside the pretty young woman by Heyes' bed.

Heyes asked blearily, "Where's that? Pardon me, I don't really remember a lot of what happened."

The young woman answered, gazing at her guest with concern, "Of course not – you've had a bad shock. We're in Connecticut, right on the coast. You were on the train and it went off the tracks in the salt marshes not too far from here. The tide rose and it was flooding anyhow with the storm. So the train just couldn't keep to the tracks. I guess the water rose too fast for them to tell the engineer to stop someplace safe."

Heyes rubbed his head again. "What time is it? And what day, for that matter?"

The young woman answered, "It's late – oh, the clock just struck 11:00 not too long ago. It's Thursday night. You were unconscious for hours."

"Oh my God!" Heyes' eyes suddenly opened very wide. "I've got to get out of here! I've got an appointment tomorrow morning in Cambridge, Massachusetts!" He pulled back the covers and then realized he wasn't wearing anything but an old, patched white shirt that wasn't his. "Where are my clothes? I have to be on my way!"

The two women standing next to his bed looked back and forth at each other. "Now, calm down, dear. You aren't up to going anywhere," said the elderly lady.

Heyes said urgently, "You don't understand. I have an academic interview at Harvard tomorrow morning. I can't miss it."

"There, there, dear," said the old lady. "Harvard! My goodness gracious! It's very impressive, but I'm afraid you'll have to miss it. The tracks are washed out and the roads, too. No ferries will be running in this weather. There would be no time to get there, even if everything was fine. And you need to rest. So lie back down and let us look after you."

The anxious applicant pleaded with his caretakers, "I appreciate the care, but it could cost me the biggest chance of my career if I miss that appointment. Do you have a telephone I could use in the morning? At least I have to let the mathematics department know why I was delayed."

"A telephone? Out here? What do you think we are, rich?" the young woman laughed.

"Well, then, a telegraph office," said Heyes, remembering belatedly that he wasn't in New York City any longer.

"Not here, dear," said the elderly lady. "The closest one is over in Bridgeport, and there's nobody going to get there for a day or two in this weather. But never you mind – the people at Harvard have some sense, I hope. They'll have heard about the tracks being washed out and the train derailing. They'll understand." She darted a glance at the young woman with her eyebrows raised.

"If the word can get through, aunty," said the younger woman. "With the tracks and the wires out, the news might not get out until next week, or whenever things get fixed back up."

"Now, that's a fact, it will take a little time," said the old aunty.

Heyes couldn't help sounding a little panicky. "I've got to get word to Harvard tomorrow morning. I just have to. And I need to get in touch with my wife in New York – she'll be worried. And my partner's expecting me to get in touch about – about something else."

"Now settle down, dear. Have some sense, if that accident has left you any. You did take an awful bump on the head. I can see the bruise coming up. We'll get messages out to Harvard, and your wife, and your business partner as soon as we can. What's your name?" asked the old lady.

Heyes stared at the two women for a moment. He was fairly sure that they thought his brains were addled from the blow to the head. When he told them his name, it wasn't going to help that opinion any. But if he gave just his middle name and they later found out what his first name was, his saviors would feel betrayed. Heyes felt as trapped as if he was in jail. He tried to speak calmly. "Heyes. My name is Hannibal Heyes."

Just as he had feared, the two women laughed uneasily. "Of course it is, dear," said the old aunty, patting her patient on the hand. "Of course it is."

The ex-outlaw struggled to sound as calm and rational as he could. "Look in my brief case. There are copies of my amnesty papers, my pardon, and my diplomas in there. They all have my name on them."

"Brief case? They just brought you to our house, Mister, no luggage. If you had a brief case, it'll be at the bottom of the marsh, most likely," said the younger woman.

"Oh no! I really need those papers. Thank goodness I left the originals at home. Well, I had some business cards in my jacket. Those have my name on them." Heyes found it difficult to think clearly, but he tried his best to find a way out of this dilemma.

"You didn't have a jacket when they brought you to us," said the old aunty. "Just your pants, belt, shirt, and drawers, and your shoes and socks. Your clothes were soaked through and torn to bits. Your shoes might make it, but otherwise you'll have to wear my late husband's things when you can get up. But you aren't well enough – not by a long chalk. Let me bring you some good broth. That'll make you feel better, whatever your name is."

Heyes tried to be patient. "My name is Hannibal Heyes. Hannibal Joshua Heyes. I know you don't believe me, but look at the scars on my cheek and my temple, and the ones around my wrists. I promise you, there are a lot more all over me – bullet wounds and knife scars. Other than somebody who used to be an outlaw, who else do you know who'd be that torn up?"

"Any fisherman you care to name, dear," said the aunt gently, patting Heyes' hand again. "Now you settle down, Hannibal, dear, and let us nurse you awhile. I'm Mrs. Murphy, and this is my niece Clara."

"I wish you'd believe me about my name, Mrs. Murphy," said Hannibal Heyes. "I'm not in that bad shape." But his words were in vain.

Heyes exhaled in frustration as the two women left the room. He could hear them talking outside the door. "Hannibal Heyes? Here? He's lost his marbles, sure enough," said the young woman sadly.

Her aunt answered, "Yes, honey, I'm afraid so. What a shame – such a handsome young man. But completely off his rocker. We'll have to get Doctor Parker here when we can – when he's done with the people who are really badly hurt. Goodness only knows when that will be. I hope our outlaw doesn't try to steal anything in the meantime."

"I hope not, but we'll have to watch him," remarked her niece. "He's awfully good looking and he seems nice enough, but for heaven's sake! First he's a great scholar who has an interview at Harvard and then he's Hannibal Heyes the outlaw. Poor fellow – mad as a hatter. I wonder if he even has a wife or a business partner. Maybe he means that Kid Curry man – awful murderer. We certainly don't want to bother anybody at Harvard about this poor man."

"No, of course not. They'd think we had lost our minds."

Heyes sighed. He had spent many years trying to prove that he was somebody besides Hannibal Heyes. Now he had to prove that he really was the famous former outlaw. And he had to prove it fast.