Kid Curry was having an uncomfortable evening. It was still hot, though better than it had been that afternoon. He was naked and sweating.
"Um, honey," he said to Cat as she lay beside him in bed. He was massaging her sore back as he tried to speak.
"Yes, dear," said Cat absently, "what is it?"
"A guy from Wyoming – a guy nobody knew – was in town today. A gunman. He said something about Luke Benton and the Teasdale Brothers – the young ones – the living ones. He threatened me, and Heyes."
Now Jed Curry had his wife's undivided attention. She turned to face him. "He threatened you right to your face? Had he lost his mind?"
Curry embraced his while he tried to speak honestly to her. "Sorry, I mean, he didn't threaten me himself, directly. But he pretty well told me that the Teasdale boys and maybe some other guys from Wyoming are going to come after me, and right soon."
Cat wasn't panicked, but she was upset. "Jed - you're serious? They'd come after you while you're still on crutches."
"Yeah, I'm serious. And what better time for them to try to get me, when I ain't all well? I don't like to worry you, but you need to know. If you want to go visit your aunt again, or go back East, or something, I wouldn't blame you at all."
Cat kissed the Kid's strong right hand. "No! I'm not running out on my man. Do you think they might just be trying to make you nervous, to distract you from something else that might be going to happen?"
"I thought of that. Yeah, they might. I told both deputies about it. And I told Heyes. And he told Lom. And I've told you. So we got a lot of eyes staying peeled. I'm gonna try to stay with the routine, but I ain't gonna pretend this guy didn't turn up and say his piece, cause he did."
"I appreciate you not hiding things from me, Jed Curry," said Cat, putting her arms around her husband. "I love you, honey. I'm glad you trust me."
"Of course I trust you! I'm glad you aren't too upset. Guys do this kinda stuff all the time – outlaws do. Trying to throw a guy off his game. It won't work."
"Of course, it won't, Jed. You're the best. You'll get those guys if they come anywhere near this town. They all deserve to get caught, or shot down, and you're the man to do it, even on crutches."
"Yeah, well, I wish my leg was all better, but it ain't. It sure do seem to heal up slow."
The pair embraced. There were no secrets between them.
Meanwhile, Al Kelly was sweating as he walked the dark streets of Louisville. He heard a sound from someplace behind the livery stable. He drew his pistol and snuck back into the shadows. He found a stray dog eating a dead rat. He spat away from the sight and went on to visit every saloon in town, drinking nothing but water in any of them. The law was on watch in Louisville.
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"Good morning, Mr. Heyes," said Clara Murphy. She looked uneasy as she came into the little bedroom where they were putting up the man who claimed, against all odds, to be both a notorious ex-outlaw and a scholar with an appointment at Harvard. "I hope you're feeling better this morning."
Heyes jerked awake. He started to reach for a gun that wasn't there, then smiled quickly at his pretty young hostess to cover for the awkward moment. Miss Murphy noted her guest's brief moment of disorientation and reflexive self-defense. She wondered if perhaps the unlikely name he had given the night before might actually be right. That made the appointment at Harvard seem far less likely.
"I am feeling better, thank you, Miss Murphy," said Heyes. "Hardly even aching. Something smells mighty good." The Murphys' guest sat up and looked around. He could see from the scant light coming through the ruffled curtains on the windows that the day was darkly overcast and he thought he heard the growl of thunder. Rain beat down hard on the low roof above the bed.
"If you're up to it, you can wash up and come to breakfast, or we can bring you something," said Miss Murphy. "You've got soap and water over there with the basin and towel. I brought you my uncle's old robe."
"Thank you. I'm really fine," said Heyes again, sitting up in bed. "I don't have even a headache or anything this morning. I'd like to be of some help around the place in return for your hospitality. I just wish the roads were open."
"Well, if you're sure, then go ahead and get up. I think you might be able to fit into some of my late uncle's old things, though he wasn't as tall as you are and he was a little stout where you surely are not," said Clara, inspecting her guest critically in the light of day. "But that mark on your head looks even worse now."
Now, with his headache gone, Heyes was thinking clearly enough that he thought he knew what the women had been talking about the night before. "Oh, you mean here?" He put a hand to his left temple.
"Yes – there's an awfully dark mark there," said his hostess in dismay.
Heyes smiled as comfortingly as he could. "Don't worry, Miss Murphy. Unless there's a mild bruise there that I can't see, and I sure don't feel one, that's not new. That scar's been there for almost six years. It's where I was shot by a posse back when my partner and I were still wanted."
Clara Murphy stared at her handsome guest in concern. In the brighter light of morning she could see that the large dark mark was, indeed, an unusually large and heavy scar rather than a bruise. But she was taken aback that their guest was still insisting he was Hannibal Heyes, "What do you mean, still wanted?"
The ex-outlaw spoke as patiently as he could. "I thought I mentioned it last night, though maybe you thought I was out of my head. I'm not – honestly, I'm just fine. My partner and I were given amnesty a few months back, when they let us out of the Wyoming Penitentiary where they had us on robbery charges. We're not criminals any longer." Heyes paused to gauge Miss Murphy's reaction to this. Seeing that she was still uncertain, he added, "I wish I had my briefcase so I could show you copies of the amnesty and pardon papers. My partner and I stopped breaking the law almost eight years ago and we got amnesty from four state governors just this spring. If you consult any law office, they can confirm that for you. Notices were sent to every state in the Union and all the territories, as well."
"Oh," said Miss Murphy skeptically. "I don't remember hearing about it."
"It was in the all newspapers out West and where I live in New York, though maybe it didn't get here."
"Or I didn't know to be watching for it, since I had no idea the subject would show up here. Can you tell me about it? I feel bad not believing you, but you can understand that the story seems awfully unlikely. If I know more, I can judge better." The young woman's appraising gaze made it clear that she was far from sure she was speaking with a sane man, despite Heyes' best efforts to speak as clearly and logically as he could when he was very hungry and increasingly anxious about what would happen to him next.
His stomach growled. He wished he could eat breakfast before telling this rather complicated story. He left out his murder trial, since the topic could only further frighten his hostesses. "Sure. I imagine you've heard about the many robbery charges that were pending against Mr. Curry and myself from our activities out West? It was 43 robbery charges, actually, and I don't know how many more related charges – jail break and that kind of thing. Mr. Curry and I were given a pardon for one robbery charge we were prosecuted on in Wyoming and we got amnesty on all the other charges. We've made ourselves useful to the law quite a number of times, which helped them to decide to let us off. After all, they'd been wasting an awful lot of time and money chasing us with no results. We were pretty slippery." He smiled and tried to speak with some lightness, knowing that charm was the easiest way to win over strangers – especially women.
Miss Murphy asked, "And how did you come to be on a train from New York to Boston?"
Heyes tried not to sound impatient at this, but his stomach growled again. "As I said last night, I have an academic interview at Harvard. It was supposed to be this morning. I wish I didn't have to miss it without telling anyone at Harvard why."
Miss Murphy asked, "But, pardon me, how did an outlaw come to be qualified to teach at Harvard?"
Heyes patiently explained, "After I got shot in the head, I needed medical care that I had to get in New York. While I was there, I studied some with a tutor, since I'd never finished school out West."
"Wait a minute, what clinic? I'm sorry – I don't mean to pry," said Miss Murphy, trying to sound sympathetic.
Heyes sighed. He disliked talking about this, since he hated being pitied, but there was no rational reason to hide his aphasia. "I had, um, aphasia. It means I couldn't talk or write. Not one word for a long time."
Miss Murphy gasped. The pity in her eyes was clear and it cut Heyes like a knife. But he went on, "Aphasia can also include problems understanding or reading, but my trouble in those directions cleared up pretty quickly after I was shot, though it didn't seem quick to me at the time. Speaking came back in time with a lot of help at the clinic, though I guess you can hear the little pauses and a stumble now and then. And writing – well, I had to learn it all over and it sure was hard. Anyhow, when I was doing better at talking and was making some progress learning to write again, the woman who'd been tutoring me at the clinic said she thought I'd be good at college classes – mathematics especially. I've always liked math and been good at it. She was right – I did very well. I recently graduated with my Masters in Mathematics from Columbia University. They gave me the highest honors they have. I'm hoping to teach at the college level. My advisor thinks I'll very good at it. By the way, I married my tutor. I really do hope I can send her a message soon, back in New York. She'll be worrying over me. I have this awful habit of getting into trouble and she knows that all too well. Now, can I please wash up? I smell what must be a delicious breakfast and I'm very hungry."
"Oh, pardon me, Mr. Heyes," said Miss Murphy. "I'm sorry to make you tell that long story when you'd rather be eating. I understand better now. I was kind of worrying that you might be robbing us – it doesn't sound likely." She left the room, looking very thoughtful. Heyes felt sure she was moved by his plight, but he wondered if she was also parsing how much of the truth his story might have in it, and how much might be fiction. Heyes was inwardly cursing his well-earned and widely publicized reputation as a liar.
After Heyes had had time to wash up, Mrs. Murphy brought in an armful of old clothes. The westerner had heard parts of his story being relayed from niece to aunt, so he wasn't surprised to see his elder hostess studying him closely. "Good morning, Mr. Heyes," she said. "I brought you some of my husband's clothes. I hope you can get into them. If not, I'm sure we can find something among the neighbors, if the rain would only stop." The lady jumped a bit as thunder roared right above them at the same moment that lightning flashed repeatedly. The little saltbox house shook. "Goodness, that was close!"
"It sure was!" The ex-outlaw agreed. "It's a bad storm, but it doesn't stop me from looking forward to that breakfast you've been fixing. It smells great."
"Are you sure you're well enough to get up? My niece said the mark on your head is old, but still . . ."
The patient had a hard time staying in bed. "I'm perfectly fine, Mrs. Murphy, I assure you. I've been through much worse in the past."
The elderly lady stared critically at her guest. "I suppose so, being chased by sheriffs before you got the amnesty my niece told me about."
"Yes, Ma'am, I'm afraid that's true. I'm glad nobody has to chase me any longer. Now if you can let me get dressed?"
"Of course," said Mrs. Murphy, withdrawing hastily.
Heyes felt rather embarrassed to appear in pants and a shirt that were too big around the middle and not nearly long enough in the arms and legs, but it was better than going to breakfast in nothing but a nightshirt. The dining room was modest, but the food was excellent.
"Thank you very much for your hospitality, ladies," said Heyes between tasty bites. "I'm sorry my name makes you so uneasy, but my amnesty documents require that I use my right name. They want to keep an eye on me. I really am reformed, but I don't suppose I can blame the law, or you, for wanting to make sure of that."
"Now don't you worry, Mr. Heyes. We're just glad you're doing better today," said Mrs. Murphy. The former outlaw strongly suspected that she was still dubious about his identity, history, and sanity. "I only hope this awful weather will clear up soon so the water will be off the road and you can go on your way."
As Mrs. Murphy and her niece were serving seconds of coffee, biscuits, scrambled eggs, and bacon, there was a loud and insistent knock on the door. Miss Murphy turned to answer it.
The thunder boomed again as she opened the door to find a powerfully built man in a raincoat and boots. "Come in out of the rain, Mr. Mayor. Goodness, what a violent storm it is for this time of the morning!"
"Yes, indeed, Miss Murphy," said the Mayor, looking curiously at the guest at the table across the room from him. "I'm afraid the water's still rising, even when the tides are falling. I wanted to let you know not to try to go out and especially to avoid the turnpike. We're piling sandbags and trying to get the water off the road so we can get communication going over to Bridgeport again. We're hoping we can avoid too much flooding of the stores and houses down around the square."
"Can you use some help?" asked Heyes, getting to his feet.
"We surely can!" exclaimed the mayor readily, looking in surprise at the stranger.
"Now, Mr. Heyes, are you sure you're up to that?" warned Mrs. Murphy. "Mr. Mayor, this gentlemen is one of the people who were injured when the train derailed yesterday. He said he's well now, but he was badly bruised and he was unconscious for a long time."
"I'm just fine, Ma'am, I assure you," said Heyes. "Mr. Mayor, my name is Heyes. I'd be happy to help out in any way that I can. I hope I can get hold of a rain coat. It looks real wet out."
"It certainly is, Heyes," said the burley, grey-haired mayor. "We'd be glad of any help we can get. The tide will be back up this evening, so the flooding is likely to get worse. A couple of fishermen might have been lost last night, or blown so far out to sea that they aren't back yet. The ones who are on shore are mostly busy making their boats and houses secure. So we don't have a lot of men handy for getting the water off the road and away from buildings."
"You can have Mr. Murphy's oilskin, of course, Mr. Heyes," said Mrs. Murphy. "But I do worry, sending you out in this awful weather when you were knocked out so badly just yesterday."
"I'm perfectly alright, Ma'am," repeated the ex-outlaw. "Honestly, I am. I'm used to recovering quickly."
"From being shot, I suppose," said the younger Murphy under her breath, but she said nothing to the town's hard-pressed mayor about the identity of his newest volunteer. The mayor gave the stranger a questioning look, but he asked no further. He wasn't one to look a gift horse in the mouth. He needed every hand he could get.
Heyes squeezed his feet into boots that weren't quite big enough and put on an old rain coat that smelled as if it hadn't been used in some time. He followed the Mayor out the door and down the road into town. Soon, he was introduced to a half-dozen men and boys who were hard at work in the driving rain. Two older men were working a hand pump to move water off the road while others were carrying buckets filled with water, filling sand bags, and piling them to block the rising tide from inundating the lower parts of the town.
It was hard, wet, chilly, grueling work. Heyes was put to work piling sandbags, since he was stronger than the boys who were filling the bags with wet sand and the men in their fifties and sixties who were working the pump. Heyes grinned inwardly, thinking of all the years he and his partner had spent avoiding work that was hard on the back. This was some of the hardest work the westerner had ever done in his life. It was not much easier than driving spikes on the railroad in Wyoming. But Heyes did not grudge this labor among men who only wanted to spare their neighbors a disastrous wetting and to reopen the road that connected them with other communities. He worked as rapidly as he could, but he paced himself. Having him collapse on the job would help nobody and he really was still a bit tired from the shock of the train wreck. The Connecticut villagers gladly accepted the stranger's strong back and willing hands without question. There were smiles of encouragement between the laborers, though the men had no breath for talking as they worked.
After they had been at work for a couple of hours, the rain began to let up. The men paused for a few moments as Miss Murphy and another women came bringing a big pot of hot coffee and a tray full of mugs. Clara Murphy looked curiously at Heyes as she approached, obviously concerned about how the recently injured man was faring. The ex-outlaw put a hand to his back and moaned softly as he straightened up.
"I hope this isn't too much for you, Mr. Heyes, after you were unconscious so long after the train wreck only yesterday," said Clara Murphy as she and her friend poured hot black coffee into heavy ceramic mugs that the men took happily.
"I'm just fine, Miss," said Heyes. "But I am glad of the coffee and a moment to take a breath."
"Thanks, Miss," said a lean boy who had been filling sand bags for Heyes to place. He looked hardly old enough to be drinking coffee.
"Now you be careful not to overdo, Prentice," said Clara solicitously to the teenager. "You have a mother to care for."
"Yes, Miss," said the boy with an embarrassed grin at the stranger working next to him. "I'm just fine, too."
Heyes now had a moment to look curiously around the little town with its grey and white clapboard and brick houses and shops. Lush trees lay beyond the borders of the town. "How long has this town been here?" he asked the Mayor, who had been working a pump nearby.
"Oh, we were settled in the 1640s. That's pretty much when every place here abouts got started," said the mayor, brushing back a lock of greying hair from his forehead before he took a long pull at his mug of coffee.
"Wow!" exclaimed Heyes. "That's mighty old, compared with where I'm from. The place in Kansas where my family had their farm was settled when we moved in – not long after I was born."
"You're from Kansas?" asked Prentice, who was clearly as impressed by a westerner as the westerner was by an old Connecticut town. "What'd you do there?"
"I worked on my parents' farm when I was a boy in Kansas," said Heyes. "But that was a long time ago. Now days I live in New York City. I do some book keeping, but I'm hoping to teach math if I can get a position someplace."
"This is hard work for a man used to pushing papers," said a stocky man sitting on top of a stone wall that was helping to hold water off the turnpike. "We do appreciate having you pitch in to help, Mister."
"The name's Heyes," said the former outlaw, reaching out his hand. "Folks here saved my life when the train derailed, so I'm glad to do what I can to be useful. It won't hurt my cause to have that turnpike passable."
"Glad to know you. I'm Sammy Terry," said his fellow laborer, jumping down and taking the offered hand in his calloused hand with broken nails. The man obviously worked hard for a living.
All too soon the Mayor shouted, "Back to work, boys! We still have a ways to go with the sandbagging and pumping. That tide is gonna' rise again tonight, you know."
The men, Heyes among them, handed their coffee mugs to Miss Murphy and her friend to take away on a tray. They went back to work without complaint. The thunder rumbled, but it didn't sound close by. The rain started up again after a brief respite, but it wasn't coming down very hard. They had strong hopes of getting the town secured from flooding that day.
"Let's take a break, boys! I think we're pretty well there," called the mayor a couple of hours later. Heyes positioned a sand bag and stood up straight, feeling his muscles complain even worse than they had during the earlier pause.
The work crew trudged wearily up hill to a drier part of town. Then they climbed the steps of a red brick hotel and went in the door to find a welcoming front room. "We're grateful to you for working beside us, Heyes," said a squat little man with a full beard that was dripping water onto the hotel's rug. He had been working on the far end of the crew from Heyes, so he hadn't heard all about the stranger. He said, "I'm Frank Temple. Are you one of the men from the train yesterday?"
"Yeah," said Heyes, who moaned softly as he collapsed gratefully onto a bench by the hotel's roaring fire. His back was aching and his arms were trembling with fatigue, but he didn't mention it. He was sure all the men around him felt pretty much the same. He gladly picked up a mug of hot, black coffee. Steading the mug with both hands to keep from spilling it, he took a deep draught.
"So somebody said you're from Kansas? That's a long way off. Must have been a change to come east," said Frank.
"Yeah, but I've been in New York for six years now, so I'm used to it," said Heyes. "You born here?"
"Yeah – nevah been West of New Jersey," said Frank with a laugh and a heavy New England accent. "You must have seen a lot of country I've never been neah."
"Maybe so," said Heyes. "But then, I've never been to sea like I guess you guys have been."
The door to the hotel opened, letting in a blast of cold, wet wind. A tall man in a black raincoat stepped toward the little group of resting men.
"Hello, Chief Porter," said the Mayor in friendly tones.
The man he had greeted was carrying a familiar-looking briefcase. "Say, any of you fellows seen a guy five-foot-eleven, lean, dark haired, brown eyes, got a big scar . . ."
Chief Porter's voice trailed off as he spotted Heyes. "I'm the police chief from Bridgeport. I'm looking for a guy named Heyes, belongs to this briefcase," said the stranger, giving Heyes a sharp look. "Would you be him?"
"I would," said the former outlaw, getting stiffly to his feet and reaching out a hand to take his property. He hoped the police chief had no further business with him than to return his luggage. The leather looked a bit the worse for wetness, but the precious gift had somehow survived. "I'm damned glad to see my briefcase. I thought it was gone for good. I suppose it's too much to ask that the papers aren't all soaked." The stranger handed him the case, which he opened to find the documents a bit wrinkled but dry and complete.
"One of the local ladies dried them by the fire yesterday when they found it," said the stranger.
So Heyes knew that the stranger who had brought him his briefcase had seen the contents and knew who the owner was. The only question was what he would do with the information. "Thanks, Chief!" said Heyes, "This means a lot to me – it was a gift from a good friend, and the papers are vital, as you know."
Heyes looked questioningly into the keen blue eyes of the stranger who had been looking for him. The former outlaw was always skeptical of lawmen, especially ones he didn't know. He couldn't stop worrying that someone would arrest him.
"Hey, Chief Porter. So they've got the turnpike clear to Bridgeport?" asked Sammy.
"Yeah, wet, but clear enough to get through, thanks to you boys and the guys working farther up the turnpike," said the Chief.
"I'm glad you could get through. But how'd you know what I look like, Chief Porter?" asked the former outlaw.
"Miss Ritter from Harvard," said Chief Porter with a grin. "She remembered every word of the description you gave her on the phone."
"Miss Ritter!" exclaimed Heyes with relief. "So Harvard knows why I didn't make it to my appointment?"
"They do, Mr. Heyes," said the police chief. "They sent a telegram to me at my station in Bridgeport, wondering if I'd heard news of you and the train you were coming on. I've only just been able to get in from Bridgeport. The local police had your briefcase but didn't know where you were. So they had a lot of questions, as you can understanding. Took me some asking around to find you." The chief studied Heyes, who looked back uneasily.
The former outlaw worried that his identity might be about to come out, but he hoped not. He said, "I'm just glad to hear that Harvard knows I didn't stand them up. And it's great to know that the turnpike's above water, chief. Thanks!"
"You gonna help us with sandbags, chief, or do you have to get back to Bridgepaht?" asked Frank.
"I've got to get back home, but I'll take Mr. Heyes with me," said the police chief from the neighboring larger town. "Mr. Heyes was due in Harvard this morning and the trains will be running west out of Bridgeport in the morning."
"Harvahd?" asked Sammy, sounding deeply impressed. Other faces turned to Heyes in wonder. "You work theah, Heyes?"
"No, not yet," said the hopeful applicant. "But maybe I will. I'm applying to teach math."
"To teach at Harvahd! Wow!" echoed Prentice, the lanky boy alongside whom Heyes had been working. Now the local men were really seriously impressed.
"We'll see," said Heyes modestly.
"I'm guessing we're nearly done with the sandbags," said the mayor. "We've been glad to have your help, Mr. Heyes. But we've about run out of sand, and the bags seem pretty close to piled high enough to me to make it through the high tide tonight. So you go on to Cambridge. Good luck to you!"
Heyes grinned and shook the Mayor's powerful hand. The other men were soon on their feet to shake Heyes' hand and thank him. Chief Porter joined them for a congenial lunch of soup, coffee, beer and biscuits. Then the chief took Heyes with him in his wagon. The chief helped the very stiff Heyes climb onto the wagon. Heyes was glad to note that the rain had stopped. "Do you know Mrs. Murphy and her niece here in Black Rock?" asked Heyes. "I was staying with them, so I'd like to go by there and let them know the news."
"Yes, I know the Murphy ladies, and I'd heard they'd taken you in" said the chief. "I'd be glad to swing by there before we head over to Bridgeport, where I can put you up tonight."
"Good, as long as it's not in your jail," said Heyes, only half joking. "If you can make sure the Murphy ladies understand who I really am and that I really have amnesty, I'd appreciate it. When I tried to tell them last night, they were sure I had lost my mind."
The chief laughed. "Yeah, I guess they would think that. I don't suppose they thought they'd ever meet a real Western outlaw."
"Former outlaw," Heyes gently corrected the chief. "And by the way, thanks for not giving me away to the men I was working with. Sometimes it's a bunch easier to be just another guy nobody ever heard of."
"I suppose so," said the chief. "Honestly, I never thought I'd meet you myself."
"It's real nice to meet a lawmen who's not out to run me in," said Heyes. "And I appreciate the ride. Getting an interview at Harvard is a dream come true. It means a lot to me that I'll be able to get there, even if it's a couple of days late."
"Hey, don't thank me, thank Harvard," explained the chief. "They're the ones who sent me after you. They were pretty concerned about you. They'll be glad to know you're safe. We can send them a telegram before you catch the train in their direction."
"That's awful nice of them, and of you. I wish I had my own clothes, though," said Heyes regretfully. "I'm afraid I'm not built quite like Mr. Murphy was, and he must have died a few years back."
"I'm sure I can manage something, or Harvard can," said the chief with a laugh. "Hey, together we managed to find Hannibal Heyes in Black Rock, Connecticut."
"True," said Heyes. "I'm in your debt."
"Glad to help you out, after you put in what must have been a pretty tough morning helping the locals. You live up the better part of your reputation as a western hero, Heyes," the chief remarked with a smile and wink.
"Thank you," said Heyes with a modest nod. "I do my best."
The wagon pulled up to the Murphys' little saltbox house. Heyes and Chief Porter went to the door. Mrs. Murphy looked alarmed to see her infamous guest escorted by a police chief. "Mr. Heyes?" she asked. "Are you alright?"
"I'm tired, but well," said the westerner.
Relieved, Mrs. Murphy belatedly said, "Won't you and Chief Porter please come in?"
"Thank you, ladies. And don't worry, Mrs. Murphy," said Chief Porter. "I'm not here to arrest your guest. He really is Hannibal Heyes, but we found his briefcase, so I've seen the papers that prove he does have amnesty and a pardon. And he really does have an appointment at Harvard. I am going to send him on the next train to Boston, in the morning."
"Oh, I'm glad to hear that everything's alright," said Mrs. Murphy, giving her guest a very thorough inspection, now that she was certain about his identity. "You must be worn out, Mr. Heyes."
"Yes, but it's good to be tired from helping people in a town that saved my life," answered the reformed outlaw. "I appreciate all the help you and your niece have given me. I wish I could pay you back somehow."
"No need, Mr. Heyes, so long as you don't rob us!" said Mrs. Murphy jokingly.
"No fear of that, Ma'am," Heyes assured her. "I learned better long ago. And it would be a really poor way to thank people who have done so much for me."
Miss Murphy stepped into the room with a happy smile on her face. "So you really are Hannibal Heyes? I should have known, after seeing all those bullet scars. Fishermen get scars, but not like that, Aunty."
"I'm sorry to have doubted your word, Mr. Heyes," said Mrs. Murphy. "But it did seem terribly unlikely that a famous outlaw would fetch up on the tide here."
"People often think that, Mrs. Murphy," laughed Heyes. "Nobody really expects me, but here I am. If I can have what's left of my own clothes and belongings, I'd be glad. I can send your husband's things back, if I can have the loan for a little longer so I can travel to Bridgeport decently clad."
The lady smiled with a fond thought of her late husband. "Of course. No one has any use for them, now that Harry's so long gone."
Miss Murphy stepped out of the room and then soon was back again, "Are these strange metal things yours, Mr. Heyes? They were found with you."
Heyes looked up in delighted relief. "Yes! I'm glad to see my pick-locks again. Of course, I don't use them any longer except for the odd emergency, Chief," said Heyes, embarrassed to have the police chief see him with such items. "It wasn't long ago that I freed a child who'd locked himself into a closet."
"Of course," said Chief Porter with a sparkle in his blue eyes. "Naturally, you wouldn't use them for anything illegal any longer, would you?"
The pair of men rode the wagon to Bridgeport through a light sprinkle, with the horses splashing through many areas of high water and endless mud on the way. The chief turned from the pair of soaked bay horses to eye his infamous passenger, "So, Heyes, it must be quite the story that gets you from holding up banks in Wyoming to an interview at Harvard."
"Yes, I guess it is," said Heyes. "I can tell you about it, if you like." So he embarked on a brief version of the tale, starting with the bullet in the head in far-off Colorado on a cold autumn night six years before.
Heyes had only just finished his story and answered a few questions when they got to the thriving but very wet city of Bridgeport. Heyes and the chief immediately visited the telegraph office. There, Heyes sent messages to Beth in New York City; Miss Ritter and the dean and George Jones in Cambridge, Massachusetts; and Lom Trevors in Porterville, Wyoming. Heyes was glad that his wallet hadn't been lost in the train wreck. He used up much the money he had sending all the messages. He didn't expect to hear back immediately from his wife or Lom Trevors, nor did he. But he quickly got a message from Harvard confirming that he could stay with George Jones and that he could see the Dean of Arts and Sciences on Monday morning. No one blamed him, of course, for the unavoidable delay.
Chief Porter put up the displaced former outlaw in a spare bedroom of his own house that night, sharing their guest's colorful story with his bemused wife. The next morning, a very relieved ex-outlaw got on the train with his water stained briefcase and a borrowed carpet bag with some borrowed clothing in it that had been worn by some past miscreant in Connecticut. The suit and shirts weren't in the current style exactly, but they fit him better than Mr. Murphy's clothing had. Heyes leaned back against the train seat, feeling that he been extremely lucky. He had been utterly shocked to have Harvard care enough to actually send someone to make sure that he was safe. No one but a close friend or colleague had ever done such a thing in the past. But he kept an eye out, just the same, taking nothing for granted.
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A boy from the Louisville telegraph office ran down the street to the Sheriff's Office as dinner time drew near and the shadows lengthened. "Sheriff Curry!" he panted as he got into the front room. "I got a message for you from Mr. Heyes!"
"From Heyes?" asked Curry, reaching curiously for the slip of paper the boy had brought. He dug a few coins out of his pocket and paid for the message, adding a tip. The boy ran off, eager to spend his riches.
Jed Curry read the message over quickly. "Train derailed in Connecticut on the way to Harvard yesterday. Been fighting flood all day. Will be in Cambridge, MA, this weekend staying with Harvard grad student George Jones. Harvard interview rescheduled for Monday, then back to NYC. Please relay any message from mutual friend L. Hope all well there. Beth knows I'm fine.
H. Joshua Heyes"
"Damn," muttered Curry, feeling Billy Healy reading over his shoulder. He looked up at his deputy. "What is it with Heyes and trains? I'm just glad he's alive. I wonder what he means about fighting a flood. Sounds like some kind of code, but not one we ever used. Anyhow, I haven't seen a sign of trouble here, have you? I haven't heard back from Lom, as you know. He's out of town someplace. I'll write back to Heyes, but sounds like there's no use in sending it until tomorrow, and it's got to go to this guy Jones in Cambridge. Must be near Boston. I wish I'd studied my geography better when we was in school. I'll have to get him to send some more telegrams to sheriffs out west asking about this Wyoming gunman. I got to know who he is and right now, nobody knows. Maybe it don't matter, but maybe it does."
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George Jones the Harvard graduate mathematics student was waiting by the platform for Heyes when the train got in to the Central train station in Boston. It was a big place and a long train, so the two men didn't see each other immediately as the former outlaw got off the train in a crowd of people. Jones spotted his friend first. "Heyes!" he called out, waving. "Over here!"
"Thanks for coming to get me and for putting me up," said Heyes, hurrying over and reaching out to shake his friend's hand. "Sorry about the change of plans."
"Hey, I can't blame you for the weather. I'm just glad you lived through it all," said the upstate New York native. "You up to going out to eat? You're walking kind'a stiffly."
Heyes winced in pain. "I'm up to whatever you like. But I am stiff as damned board. It's no wonder – I was on the sand bag line for hours yesterday in Black Rock. I'm sure most of the guys are fine, but I'm all out of shape. Working that hard yesterday and then sitting still on the train for hours today wasn't a real good combination. I've hardened up like cement. Just set an easy pace, please. I won't be able to move real fast until my muscles loosen up some."
Jones grinned at Heyes compassionately. "I understand. It must hurt pretty bad. We grad students work hard, but not with our backs. I'll take it easy on the walking. We can catch a horse car over the Charles River – that'll take care of the worst of it."
Heyes nodded. "Just make sure we don't eat anyplace crawling with Harvard boys. I don't want the word about me getting out before I've even interviewed. The school's watching out to keep me under wraps, so I don't want to let the cat out of the bag myself. Alright?"
"Sure, I understand. I think I know a place off the beaten path, but has good food. It'll be on this side of the river – that ought to keep the secret. You're quite a guy to know, Heyes, aren't you?"
When the pair got to Jones' apartment, they found a telegram waiting for them from Sheriff Curry. Jones shook his head. "Grad students and professors are supposed to be dull. You need to work on that, Heyes."
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Church bells rang on Sunday morning. Hannibal Heyes was sitting on a bench alongside the grass of the pair of green triangles known as Copley Square. In between bites of Danish, the aspiring professor of mathematics was avidly watching a crane as it ponderously lowered a granite block into place. He was riveted by the spectacle of the massive stone structure being erected across the street from him.
"Pardon me, Mr. Heyes?" said an unfamiliar voice. Heyes jumped up and turned to face the speaker, his right hand automatically moving back to where he had so long carried a pistol on his hip. He was surprised to find himself facing two middle-aged ladies in dark dresses, one a rotund brunette and the other a gawky redhead. The voice he had heard had been nearly deep enough to be mistaken for that of a man.
"I'm sorry to startle you, sir," said the stout lady with a dark bun. The deep voice had been hers. "It's a shame about your pastry." She looked regretfully at the remnants of his breakfast the retired outlaw had dropped to the pavement as he had turned to face the woman and her red-headed companion much as if they had been lawmen or rival outlaws. As the former outlaw looked at her questioningly, the woman went on, "I'm Deborah Martin, and this my friend Rebecca Wainwright."
"Oh – you're my wife Elizabeth's friends from Columbia University," said Heyes in embarrassment. "She told me that you both taught in Boston. I apologize for my reaction. I'm afraid I don't take well to being startled."
"Or being snuck up on, I'm sure," said Rebecca with aplomb. "With your past, one can hardly blame you for being a little careful."
Heyes looked at Beth's old friends in puzzlement. "I'm very glad to meet you both. Beth has often mentioned you. But how on earth did you know who I am?"
Red-headed Rebecca made a less than successful effort to suppress a smile. "We happened to witness your rather passionate farewell to your wife at Grand Central Terminal a few weeks ago when we were on our way to Baltimore for a suffrage meeting. Your wife explained who you were, of course." She didn't have to say more - for anyone but a husband to kiss a woman like that in public in those days would raise more than eyebrows.
Heyes' gave Beth's old friends a broad, embarrassed smile. "Well, we haven't been married very long. My apologies for keeping you standing. Would you like to share my bench? I've been watching them build the new public library. It's fascinating."
"Yes, I know," said Deborah, as she took Heyes up on his offer by sitting on his left. "We often come by on our way to work to watch it ourselves. Today, we're coming from church. It's odd to find them working on a Sunday – they must be behind schedule."
Rebecca sat down at Heyes' right. "I thought you were out West on job interviews. What brings you to Boston, Mr. Heyes?"
The aspiring professor couldn't help having a note of pride in his voice as he said, "I'm in town to interview for a post at Harvard."
"Ah, very impressive," said stout Deborah. "I wish you the best of fortune. It would be a great pleasure to have you and Elizabeth living so nearby so we could see you often."
"Indeed, it would," Rebecca echoed her friend. "We had fallen rather out of touch with Beth before meeting up with her the other day at the train station. We had heard that she was seeing someone."
Her dark-haired friend took up the conversation without a pause in a way that made Heyes think of his partner and himself. "But she didn't tell us any name other than Joshua Smith the cowboy. I suppose you had to keep your actual identity under wraps until your amnesty took effect."
Heyes looked rather warily at his wife's two perspicacious friends. He was sure that they would have questions about his past and he doubted he would enjoy answering them in this public a place. "Yes. I'm afraid I've never trusted the privacy of the mail. I didn't want her to ever include my real name in a letter until my partner and I were granted amnesty and a pardon."
"Did you seriously think people would open mail addressed to someone else?" asked Deborah in her deep voice.
Heyes shrugged. "I know, I know, I'm paranoid and I'm cynical. But when you've been chased as long and hard as I have been, it does things to you. I've seen mail opened by third parties for nefarious reasons. I'm ashamed to admit having done myself in my outlaw days."
The two ladies turned to look at the ex-outlaw in shock. He looked rather sheepish and confessed, "I wouldn't do it now, of course. But when my life was on the line, I did what it took to stay alive. I faked a letter or two. It probably didn't do much good - neither my handwriting nor my grammar was good enough for it to fool anybody, in those days."
"Your grammar is excellent, now," said Rebecca encouragingly.
Heyes gave Beth's red-headed friend a little bow. "Thank you. I've always tried to speak well, but I had too little schooling to manage it until I had Beth to teach me. At least I do better than my partner. The school house was never his favorite place."
Deborah said seriously, "I'm glad you make the effort. Harvard would most certainly not hire anyone who made grammatical errors."
"No, not even to sweep floors," added Rebecca with a little grin.
The trio watched an ornamental block lowered into place atop a pilaster. Heyes sighed. "I suppose I can guess what you're thinking, both of you. You disapprove of me and can't imagine why your usually sensible friend would ever take up with me."
"Well, the question did cross my mind," admitted Deborah quietly.
"Debby!" exclaimed the other one of the pair, appalled at her friend's impolite honesty.
Heyes sounded unsurprised. "No, don't bother to deny it. You're upright ladies and so is Beth. Why she would give the time of day to a man like me is a legitimate question."
"She did say that she initially knew you as an aphasia patient and a student of hers, and that she met you under another name, assuming you were a cowboy. She's a teacher, born and bred," said Rebecca. "She cares about all of her students."
"Luckily for me, yes, she does. And I care about my own. That's one of the things we have in common," said Heyes. "There are a lot more of them than you'd think."
"I guess you must have taught at Columbia," began Deborah uncertainly.
"And long before that," explained Heyes, "I taught a lot of ignorant outlaws to read and write, to read maps, and other skills I needed them to have. I was justly famous for my demanding and complex plans. Illiterate men were nearly useless to me."
"Oh! That never occurred to me," admitted Debby. "So you really are a career teacher, in a way. Considering your gifts in that direction, it seems very strange that you wound up in the line of work that you did, initially."
Rebecca observed, "I suppose we're being very innocent, not understanding what difficulties would force a well-brought-up young man into crime."'
"Yes, I'm afraid you are rather innocent, thank goodness, at least in comparison to an old reprobate like myself," said Heyes sadly. "I appreciate your recognizing that my partner and I were well brought up. Our families were poor, but they were honest. I know our parents would have been very disappointed in how we made our living for all those years."
"Would have been? So your parents died . . . was that part of the difficulty?"
"Yes. Our families were killed when we were very young. And the orphanage that we wound up in didn't exactly fill the need." The hard edge on Heyes' voice filled in the details that he wouldn't describe before a pair of proper ladies.
"I see," said Rebecca. "I'm very sorry for what you and Mr. Curry had to suffer."
The ex-outlaw hastily added, "I know it's no excuse for what we did later. Lots of boys are orphaned without turning to lives of crime."
"And lots of other men do turn to crime - and aren't so careful about making other men's children into orphans as you and your partner were said to be," added Rebecca with compassion.
Heyes took a deep breath before he replied. "Thank you. That wasn't easy."
Deborah studied the dark-haired outlaw for a long moment. "Mr. Heyes, how many times have you been shot?"
Heyes looked at her in surprise. "How did you know that was part of what I meant? No one else has ever understood that. Not even guys from out West seem to grasp that end of the equation."
Deborah said matter-of-factly, "It makes sense. I imagine outlaws murder not only to keep from being turned in, but to keep from being wounded or killed. If you wouldn't kill, then, logically, you would have suffered violent material consequences. It must have demanded great bravery from you both."
Heyes gave a bark of bitter laughter. "What do you teach, mathematics or logic, Miss Martin?"
"Both!" replied Deborah, appreciating the complement her fellow teacher had given her.
"Are you going to answer her question?" prodded Rebecca.
Heyes paused and looked into the eyes of each woman in turn, as if to make sure they would understand his answer in more than mathematical terms. "Seven times. Not counting minor grazes, of course."
Deborah spoke with respect, "That's an awful lot, even for an outlaw, to live through."
"Yes, it was. But, to be strictly honest, only three of those bullets hit me while I was an outlaw. One was when I was a boy and three came after I went straight. Those last three include two strikes in the head. Both were grazes, but such serious ones that both nearly killed me; so they count as far as I'm concerned."
The two women looked at the man before them with compassion.
"Pardon me, ladies," said Heyes with a quick look at his new pocket watch. "I'm afraid I need go so I can meet up with a friend. We're going to visit the Museum of Fine Arts, just across the way. You're welcome to come, if you like art."
Rebecca said, "We won't impose. But, Mr. Heyes, despite what you may assume about the feelings of a pair of blue stocking teachers, I believe Beth made an excellent choice in marrying you. The very best of luck with your interview. It's been a privilege to meet you." She reached out to shake his hand, which was still a very rare gesture for a lady in those days.
"And an education," chimed in Deborah, adding her own handshake. "I hope it goes well with the dean. I would very much like the opportunity to get to know you better. And to see Beth regularly. Please give her our love, when you see her."
"I will, ladies. I hope you and Beth can see each other in future on a regular basis. And I hope to see you again myself, before long."
But as Heyes made his way toward Boston's art museum transportation, where George Jones would come from attending church, he wondered if he had been quite honest. He wasn't at all sure that he was cut out to be a New Englander. He was finding out just what formidable people some of them were.
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A little later that day, Heyes and George Jones visited a telegraph office. Heyes wrote out nearly identical messages and sent them to the offices of three Wyoming and Montana sheriffs. All three described a Wyoming gunman with a mole on his cheek and a bullet scar on his neck, were signed "H. Joshua Heyes," and noted that replies should be copied to "Sheriff J. Curry, Louisville, CO."
The young telegrapher stared at Heyes in curiosity. He was too professional to ask what was going on, but it was pretty clear that it something far from normal in Boston, Massachusetts.
As the two mathematicians left the office, Jones shook his head again. "I'm telling you, Heyes, you're going to have to be damned careful. Harvard doesn't want anybody as exciting as you." The former outlaw shushed his friend carefully. He was afraid the man was right.
Historical Notes – As anyone who has been following the news recent knows, for a train to derail in a flood is all too possible. Flooding in that coastal area of Connecticut is fairly common, but I do not know of a derailment there like the one I describe. The route of the train through the salt marshes is taken from the current Amtrak route along which I have often ridden. Although maps from the 1890s tell me that the route at that time was not very different, I don't know if there was water on both sides of the tracks at any point in the route then as there is now. I have often seen ospreys in the salt marshes that lie along the Northeast corridor Amtrak route today along the Connecticut coast. The approximate date of the 1640s for the settlement of Bridgeport, Connecticut, and what is now its suburb of Black Rock are both correct.
The Boston Public Library was at the stage of construction I describe in 1891. At that time, Copley Square was made up of a pair of triangles. Lest you think I am lost in Boston, the Museum of Fine Arts was originally situated on Copley Square. The museum did not move to its present site on Huntington Avenue until 1909.
