The messenger from the telegraph office was sweating as he stood in front of the sheriff in his office. The skinny boy's eyes were big. "We got a telegram for you, um, Mr. Curry. Um, Sheriff Curry. It's from the sheriff in Porterville, Wyoming."

"Well, ain't you gonna hand over that piece of paper?" asked the sheriff patiently.

"Sorry." The boy almost dropped the piece of paper as he handed it to the infamous man behind the desk.

Kid Curry's famed lightning reflexes came into play as he snatched the slip of paper before it could flutter to the floor. When he had the telegram secured, the sheriff said, "Thanks. And here you go." He dug a dime out of his pocket to tip the boy.

The pimply boy was blushing red. "Thank you, sir."

Curry didn't look at the telegram yet. Instead he studied the boy who had delivered it and seemed so thrown by meeting Kid Curry. "I haven't seen you around town before. You're new here, ain't you?"

"Yes, sir." The boy could hardly choke out the words.

"What's your name?" asked the famous sheriff.

The delivery boy answered in a whisper. "Thaddeus."

"Thaddeus what? Speak up, boy!"

"Thaddeus Jones."

Curry cracked a smile. "Ha." Now he knew what had made the boy so nervous. He smiled. "I don't bite, Thaddeus - not even somebody with the all-fired gall to have my old alias as his real name. Ha! It ain't your fault – you didn't name yourself. I didn't either, you know. A sheriff put the name of Jones on me and Smith on Heyes, to keep track of us. It was the sheriff of Porterville - the guy before one who's sheriff there now and send that telegram. I just hope you have better luck with that handle he gave me than I did."

The boy grinned. Now he had the courage to ask what had been on his mind all along. "Thanks, Mr. Curry. Will – will you teach me to shoot? Please, sir? My pa died when I was little, so I never had nobody to teach me proper. My ma don't like to touch guns after one got my Pa."

Curry's heart went out to the boy. He knew what it was like to lose a father young to violence. "If your Ma approves, and once this leg of mine is healed up some, we'll see. You ask your Ma to come see me, alright?"

"Yes, sir, Mr. Sheriff. I'll do that. Thank you." The boy gave the dime tip a proud look before he put it in his pocket. The sheriff had a feeling that money wouldn't get spent any time soon. He also thought Mrs. Jones would be coming to visit him.

As the boy went out the door, Al Kelly was laughing at his superior. "Think you got a fan there, boss, huh?"

"It's a sheriff's duty to teach gun safety," said Curry solemnly. "That's serious work. Maybe you ought to come along and learn something, Al. Meantime, it's about time you did a patrol around town. Be sure to hit that pawn shop where Billy found the hot gun last week. And don't take too much time in the saloons. You're on duty – you ain't supposed to be drinking."

"Sure thing, boss," said Kelly, without his customary smirk. The deputy put on his hat, checked that his gun was secure and the bullet loops on his belt full. Then he went out the door.

When he was gone, Curry unfolded the paper young Thaddeus had brought. The message was from Hal Bentwood, the new sheriff of Porterville, Wyoming. The retired outlaw assumed that Lom Trevors had relayed Heyes' message to his successor, since the current sheriff would have more current information than would the retired one. The message said, "Man H described 23 y o gm Cody Laurence aka Green River Kid alias Harry Wynn alias Tom Ward etc. Wanted AR in Wyo Mont Seen with T Bs last year, not since. No known assoc with L Benton. Errand in Col unknown."

Curry studying the much abbreviated message. He had no trouble translating it to understand that the man Heyes had described in his cable to the sheriff was a 23 year old gunman named Cody Laurence also known as the Green River Kid and other unimaginative aliases. Laurence was wanted for armed robbery in Wyoming and Montana. Curry was most interested to note that Laurence had formerly ridden with the Teasdale Brothers but had evidently broken with them. He had no known association with Luke Benton. The man was probably working independently at the moment, so far as the law knew, since no current associates were named. The law did not know what had brought Laurence to Colorado, much less where he had gone when he left Louisville.

The sheriff thought about this. He wished he was able to consult with his partner, but that would probably have to wait until Heyes returned to New York City. Any threat to Heyes from western outlaws seemed very unlikely in Massachusetts, though Curry was learning not to assume anything about the distance between east and west. Heyes should have gotten his own copy of this message by now, anyway, according to their arrangements.

Over a lunch of fresh bread and cheese in the back room at Christy's Place, the sheriff told his wife, "I'm wondering whether this threat from that guy Laurence in the saloon ain't so simple as I thought. Maybe this guy Cody Laurence was trying to distract Heyes and me – make us think the Teasdales are after us. Maybe he's on the outs with them and doing them a bad turn when it's really Laurence, himself planning something. Or maybe he's back with them and the law just don't know it. Or there's some other gang paid Laurence to put us onto the Teasdale boys and maybe take them out of the picture as rivals."

Cat, sitting down next to her husband, said, "Do you think the Teasdales might have found out that you killed their older brothers? Not that they could have any evidence."

Curry shrugged. "They don't have to know details. Their older brothers had a dust-up with Heyes and me four years ago on a train headed into New York City – everybody knows that. It was in the newspapers – or it was back east, anyhow. And then Grover and Aloysius never came home. How much more do they have to know?"

"So why haven't they come for you before this?" said Cat, voicing the question that they had often thought of since that day of the shooting on Hester Street but had seldom dared to discuss aloud.

The Kid swallowed some beer and answered, "I don't know. It ain't like they've left our friends alone. Now we know they went after Lom – everybody knows he's our friend. And they killed Lobo a couple of years back, from what I hear. I didn't know about it 'til months after it happened and I don't think I mentioned it to you when I did hear. Lobo hadn't been with us for a long time, but he was a friend, once. Maybe the young Teasdale boys have been waiting for Heyes and me to come after them. Or maybe they didn't know where we was until now. We did keep mighty, mighty quiet until Heyes' murder trial. Word was, Heyes was dead. Not many folks would have seen those reports that he was found alive and they might not have believed them, since he didn't pop up doing any thieving. You'd have had to search New York pretty close to find him – if you knew that was the right place."

Cat nodded. "Well, that's true. It's not like they know their way around New York City."

Jed was considering things as he spoke. "I don't suppose they did. And you know how careful we've been to keep Louisville a secret, with help from the law."

Cat gave her husband a wry smile. "Yeah. Maybe they were just plain scared. They were pretty young when it happened – they aren't real old now."

Jed talked through a mouthful of cheese. "They got an uncle who looks after them, from what I've heard. I never have met him. But I'm guessing he wouldn't let those boys go after us till he thought they was old enough to take us on. Anyhow, somebody's on our tails now, or wants us to think they are."

"I just wish you could tell your deputies the real story. But you can never tell anybody." Cat leaned her head fondly and protectively on her husband's shoulder.

Jed nodded grimly. "Only Heyes, Beth, Charlie, Jim, you, and me know, now that Marie's gone. And we can't let anybody else find out."

Cat pointed out, "That's not counting the people on Hester Street who saw it happen."

"I'm hoping most of them don't know who I am," Curry sounded dubious about this. "And they wouldn't want to turn in a man who saved two of their own folks - a grandma and a baby."

"You can't count on it." Cat's face was very serious.

"No, but they ain't said a word in four years. I trust those folks as much as a man can trust a bunch of strangers."

Mrs. Curry caressed her husband's strong, tense right hand. "But about having the Teasdales after you – or that guy Laurence – that people can know about, even if not why. You have plenty of earlier fights with the older Teasdales to explain them not liking you. There are a bunch of sheriffs that know about the Teasdales – and that care about it. That's quite a change from the old days for you guys."

The Kid agreed. "Yeah. Anyhow, I'll be watching like a hawk. And I'll let the sheriff hereabouts know something might be up with outlaws from Wyoming. I don't know if Heyes wants anybody to tell the law in New York, or Cambridge, or wherever he is."

Cat couldn't help worrying over her cousin in law. "I don't suppose the law in the east would know what to do about it. Heyes isn't a sheriff. The police can't be body guards for him."

Curry said thoughtfully, "Whole thing makes me think of when the Devil's Hole bunch hit Denver – we were hoping getting way out of our home territory would throw off the law."

"It worked, didn't it?" Cat got up to help her husband to his feet

The Kid wiped his mouth and struggled to stand with his crutches. "Yeah, it did. Not that it was as simple as that. We put a lot of work into that job. But, this time we're on the other side. I hope we law men can stop whatever it is the Wyoming crooks got brewing. Boy, that is a change."

The sheriff put his crutches to work, heading back to his office. He wiped the back of his neck in the summer heat. His wife watched with concern as he went.

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Heyes, in fact, had not yet seen the message from the new sheriff of Porterville, Wyoming. And he did, indeed, have his own concerns. On that particular Monday morning, he was eating breakfast with George Jones in his apartment. The pair noshed on bagels and cream cheese Jones had brought from a local deli, along with coffee he had made on his own stove. "I surely do appreciate your making me so welcome, Jones," said the sore-backed guest up from New York. But his mind strayed out to his partner and his past. "When I was out West, I never appreciated how nice you eastern guys can be and how hard guys can work on paper. I can't believe I've been a college student for almost five years, after all those years chasing around the West with posses on my tail. It just doesn't seem real sometimes. And that I might get to be a professor – that's really hard to believe."

Jones studied his friend. "And sometimes I can't believe that you robbed people and spent fifteen years running for your life before I ever met you."

Heyes shrugged and took a sip of hot coffee. "That's all past now. I can forget the sheriffs – other than my partner – and worry about professors, deans, and board members. You told me about the Harvard politics and the board last night. I appreciate the opinion of a man who's got your experience at this school. So now, George, tell me about Dean Paulson. I know about his academic work in mathematics. What's he like as a man?"

Jones smiled. "He's a real decent guy. There are arrogant snobs at Harvard, but he's not one of them. He treats students and teachers as people. I'll bet he's the one who thought that you might be on that train and made sure you were alright. Or maybe it was Miss Ritter – she's a good soul. Probably it was both of them, actually. They're a good team. You know how it is with universities – the secretaries can make as much difference to your life as the people supposedly in charge do."

Heyes nodded. Jones, himself was a decent guy, it seemed to the former outlaw. "Yeah. And life in general, I guess. Anyone who doesn't get paid much, especially a woman, doesn't get much credit in this life. I'll thank Miss Ritter good and proper. But Paulson is the one making the decisions. So, do you think he's serious about me, or just curious about the western freak?"

Jones was dismayed by his friend's cynicism. "Huh? He's not like that. He's got to be serious, or he wouldn't ask you to come all the way up here. He wouldn't waste another man's time like that. I tell you – he's a good guy. He grew up on a farm in Minnesota. Salt of the earth, that man. Have you had interviews that weren't the real thing?"

Heyes grimaced at the memory. "Yeah. My first interview was an ambush. I better not tell you where it was, but all the guy wanted was to humiliate me and make Columbia look bad."

There was no foolish a fellow mathematics graduate student. "Ha! It was that ass, the dean at NYU, wasn't it?"

"I told you, I can't say. Or I shouldn't." But Heyes grinned, making the answer to the question obvious.

With breakfast over, the ex-outlaw stood and brushed the crumbs off of his suit. He picked up his water-stained briefcase. "Well, I'd better head out. I'm glad there isn't far to go and that I can walk. I'm getting not to trust transport other than my own legs or a horse."

"Good luck, Heyes!" said Jones, reaching out to shake his friend's hand. Then the applicant headed for Harvard Yard, which was only a few blocks away. When he got to the pair of historic, tree-shaded grassy stretches of Cambridge known as Harvard Yard, he easily found the building mid-way between the old and new sections of the Yard. Set amid an array of handsome stone and brick edifices, there was the symmetrical pale granite bulk of University Hall. Heyes climbed the grand stairs with his heart pounding. Something told him that this morning would be a pivotal moment in his storied life. Jones' words had reminded him of how exotic a creature he was to these eastern law-abiding citizens, and what that could mean to his chances.

Heyes walked down a paneled hall until he found the polished wooden door with a brass plaque reading "Dean Paulson, Arts and Sciences." The door was opened. He looked in to the dean's outer office to find a middle-aged woman in a tight bun sitting behind the desk using a typewriter with rapid efficiency. Heyes had been wrong about her being pretty – in fact she struck him as plain and mousey. But he wasn't going to let that opinion show. He knew there was a fine person behind that dull, business-like façade.

The typewriter's noise allowed the ex-outlaw to sneak up on the secretary. She spotted him only at the last minute, looking up in surprise. Heyes' eyes were sparkling as he made a theatrical bow to the lady behind the desk. He hid the stab of pain the bow caused his still stiff back. "Here I am, Miss Ritter, H. Joshua Heyes in person. I hope I am not too much of a disappointment, despite borrowed clothes and sore muscles."

Miss Ritter's lit up with a smile that made her look suddenly radiant. She sprang to her feet. "Mr. Heyes! Welcome to Harvard! Nobody could possibly find you disappointing."

"I hope Dean Paulson agrees," said Heyes with a grin and a wink to his new friend. He gallantly kissed her hand, which made her blush and laugh.

Miss Ritter gestured for the applicant to take a comfortable seat on one of the leather upholstered chairs in the dean's outer office. It was unusually well furnished for an academic office. There were even paintings in the new Impressionist style hanging on the walls. "I can only wish you luck with the dean – he makes up his own mind," said the dean's secretary, who clearly was charmed by Heyes in person even more than she had been on the telephone. "But he's a reasonable man. We've heard about your adventures getting here, of course. We're all terribly relieved to have you arrive safely. I hope you didn't suffer any new scars from the train accident."

"No, not scars. Bruises, yes, but they don't show and they'll heal up. And the very sore back from working on the sand bag line is improving by the hour. These days, I'm used to paperwork, not flood control. I'm very much in your debt for sending the local police chief to find me and my briefcase with the vital papers in it." He patted the case in question fondly. "I don't know what I'd have done without your help, and the chief's."

Miss Ritter gave her guest a sympathetic smile. "It was our pleasure to do what we could. Yes, we heard about your work with the sand bags in Black Rock. You've made a very good impression, I must say. Applicants who volunteer to help small New England towns are bound to get on our good side. We don't normally have authentic heroes interviewing for academic positions."

Heyes smiled. He kind of missed being seen as a hero, now that he was heading toward being a prosaic academic rather than an infamous outlaw. "That's very kind of you, Miss Ritter. I hope anybody else would have acted the same if the locals had just saved his life. The guys there didn't know about my past, thank goodness. So they just let me work and didn't make a fuss. I hope you won't make a fuss, either."

Miss Ritter busied herself trying to make her famous guest at home, but she said. "Far be it for me to make a fuss, Mr. Heyes. But I will offer you some very fine coffee to enjoy until the dean comes back from a meeting. Cream or sugar?"

Heyes settled into his chair, glad it was well stuffed. "Just black, thanks." He sipped his coffee, enjoying a much better brand than George Jones could afford. The world of professors and deans was far more comfortable and better financed than the world of struggling grad students. Heyes hoped he would soon move from the latter to the former.

Miss Ritter assured her guest. "The dean's meeting is pretty high level, so do be patient. He can't exactly walk out on board members."

Heyes put his coffee down and nodded. "Of course. I'm just glad the dean could fit me in today at all after I had to miss on Friday, when you'd set it up so carefully and all. I do realize that deans are busy people."

Heyes heard shoes on the polished floor of the office. "And so are ex-outlaw mathematicians in search of high level academic employment, I would think," said a baritone voice from behind Heyes. "I'm glad you were able to get here safely."

The eager applicant got to his feet and turned to find a tall brown-bearded man in spectacles looking at him. Paraphrasing a quotation that had been famous for twenty years, Heyes said, "Dean Paulson, I presume. I very much appreciate your rearranging your schedule to accommodate me."

"Yes, I'm Dean Paulson. And you must be H. Joshua Heyes." The dean was careful not to give away his interviewee's old name – there were other people coming and going around the offices who could have overheard. "I'm glad enough to see you, if not as glad as Stanley was to see Livingstone in darkest Africa. Any little schedule changes are well worth it, Mr. Heyes. Good morning and welcome to Harvard." The bearded dean extended a broad, strong hand to welcome his famous applicant.

Heyes took the hand offered him, glad to detect honest pleasure in the greeting. "Thank you, Dean. I'm very glad to be here."

The dean gestured his applicant to follow him into his inner office. "I understand you've visited the Harvard campus before."

"Yes, sir. I spoke at an undergraduate symposium a few years ago. It was a thrill to see this place. To refresh my memory, Mr. Jones gave me a tour of campus yesterday. I don't need to tell you how impressive I found it. And enticing." Heyes wasn't going to let anyone think he wasn't glad to have a shot at a prestigious post at Harvard.

Paulson smiled and gestured for Heyes to sit down. "Trust you to make good use of your extra day in the area. There is some lively entertainment to be found nearby, as well, you ought to know. Some decent poker parlors, even."

Heyes sat on a very comfortable chair opposite the dean's imposing carved wood desk. "I don't doubt it, but that wasn't what I was after. The Museum of Fine Arts is more my speed these days."

Paulson sat down and looked appraisingly at the candidate before him. "So you've settled down some since your notorious days out West. That's only to be expected with the passage of time and some study, I suppose. Or perhaps you're only trying to come across as cultivated?"

Heyes grinned self-consciously. There was some truth to this, however humorously the dean intended the remark. "Actually, I've been a bit interested in art for a long time. I met Thomas Moran, the painter, on a western expedition in 1871. I enjoyed watching him sketch and do watercolors."

"Oh? I thought you would have been engaged only in illegal activities at that date, rather than scientific." Now the dean wasn't joking.

The former outlaw admitted, shame-facedly, "Actually, I was, um, up to no good at all on that occasion. I never said my own purposes were scientific – only those of the expedition. I'm sorry."

The dean grinned. "Don't look so mortified, Heyes. You need not apologize – I know your reform occurred long after that date. I'm glad you're not covering up your past or making excuses for it. It's the man you are now who interests me most. You are newly married, I understand?"

Heyes spoke formally, but in fact he felt surprisingly relaxed with this formidable and famous academic. "Yes, sir. I married Elizabeth Warren, the tutor at the Leutze Clinic. She's the one who got me interested in attending college, and convinced me that I might actually be able to manage it."

The dean watched the man before him closely. "She must be quite a lady to have changed your plans that much. I suppose higher education seemed like a serious long shot for you at the time."

Heyes was determined to speak as honestly as he could to a man he hoped would trust him. "Frankly, Dean, yes. For a man with my background, college seemed a very long shot, indeed. Even discounting being wanted dead or alive, I never finished secondary school out West, and I didn't have a dime to pay for tuition. And fighting aphasia from being shot in the head did not make things any easier, either."

Paulson nodded. "Yes, I communicated with Charlie Homer about your earlier battles with writing and speaking. He gave me to know that the silver tongue is in pretty fine trim these days."

Heyes hesitated for a moment, uncertain how open he could really be. "In fact, I had a bit of a setback in the spring after a blow to the head. It seems to have cleared up completely, thank goodness. Most of my troubles I hope are not evident to anyone but me. Speaking will never be as easy for me as it was, but writing was where my problems were worst. It's all immeasurably better than it was."

The dean led the conversation back to the classroom, "Charlie Homer tells me you have a gift for winning and keep the attention of your students."

Heyes smiled at the mention of his advisor and mentor. "Charlie's very kind. I try to use a little humor and some story telling in between the technical information. Varying the mood and content keeps the students on their toes."

"Might you see teaching as a new way of using your gifts as a con man?" Dean Paulson ventured.

Heyes shook his head. "No. Some of the verbal gifts for getting and holding attention are about the same in conning and teaching, it's true. But conning is totally built on deceit where to me teaching is about complete, well-earned trust. I'm good at lying, but I really love to tell the truth properly about mathematics. It was always my favorite subject. I remember telling my old boss from the Hole, who's also gone straight, that I was getting college degrees. He knew immediately it would be in math."

"The Hole?" The dean didn't recognize the thieves' jargon.

Heyes grinned briefly in embarrassment. "Sorry – the Devil's Hole – the place our gang was headquartered way out in the middle of nowhere in Wyoming. The Hole was what we called it among ourselves."

The dean shook his head. "Honestly, looking at your article and the records of the honors you've won, I still can't believe you really are Hannibal Heyes the outlaw. Having done what you have – it's just incredible."

Heyes said, "Thank you. I've had the help of a lot of friends. Charlie Homer, Dr. Leutze at the clinic, my wife, and so many others. My partner was the first, of course. He's supported me all the way with my studies."

"Really?" Dean Paulson was startled at the thought of the famous gunman caring anything about academics. He stroked his grey-streaked beard.

Heyes nodded, with a distant look in his eyes. "Oh, yeah. He's the Sheriff of Louisville, Colorado these days, and runs a hotel with his wife, too. I am so proud of him! You know he's my younger cousin? We grew up together. We looked after each other after our parents were killed in '62. We haven't always done things together, or even seen eye to eye, but we respect each other."

"But to get back to teaching . . ." The dean seemed almost reluctant to duck out on stories of the famous pair of outlaws in favor of more routine academic questions.

"Yes?" Heyes was happy to talk about his gifts in the classroom.

"I understand you like to do practical demonstrations of mathematical principals?"

Heyes said, "Yes, I do, when I can. There are severe limits to that, of course, especially in an urban setting. I realize that blowing off dynamite and nitro for students is not generally very practical. And I'm not out for gasps like an elementary school teacher. But I don't want the students to lose sight of the practical applications. So a little narrative and demonstration about real, specific applications helps. It's not like I don't have the experience with a variety of forces and stresses, and how to set them against one another."

The dean's eyebrows rose. "When blowing open safes?"

Heyes chuckled. "And bringing down bridges. But I've done more recent experiments with explosives for purely academic purposes. My MA partner and I had a professional photographer document the results photographically and we followed up with detailed diagrams. So stories, demonstrations, diagrams, photographs - I'll use whatever I can use to show how mathematics help us to describe and predict the behavior of forces in real life."

"You think Harvard students would have trouble connecting equations to reality?" The dean allowed a little skepticism to color his tone.

Heyes looked probingly at the dean, trying to gauge if he had taken the wrong tack. He thought not, but perhaps the applicant himself was coming across as lacking in sophistication. "Early on in their studies, I think anyone can use some help making that connection. And farther along, students sometimes need a little corrective when their ideas are in danger of losing contact with practicality."

"Yes, I agree." The dean seemed satisfied with that answer. "But tell me more about your new ideas on directing small explosions . . ."

From here, the conversation quickly delved into complex mathematical questions and advanced pedagogy. Heyes enjoyed this tremendously. The pair of mathematicians avidly exchanged ideas about research and teaching. But Heyes hoped that he was keeping up as well as he thought he was. He saw an enthusiastic light in the dean's brown eyes that he hoped meant the two mathematicians shared interests and approaches. After the discussion had been going for nearly an hour, Heyes decided to ask directly. "Dean, do you think my approaches are too direct, too crude for Harvard students? Am I too used to drawing up plans on the black board back at the Hole?"

The dean paused and considered his answer. "No, but you do need to be careful of giving that impression. These students think pretty well of themselves in most cases, and we hope they're right about that. So let me ask - do you think your fame will be a useful tool, or will it will be hard to get students to take you seriously?"

Now Heyes was uncomfortable again, coping with what he understood was a very crucial question. "I, um, I'm not sure. I'll have to feel my way. Every student body is different, and every class, and student. I think it might be a bit tough, at first, here or anywhere when they first find out what that first H in my name stands for. I imagine that how I start off in the classroom with the first students will be very important. I don't ever want to lean on my infamy. The substance of the class is the thing."

The dean was watching the candidate attentively. "I suspect you're right about having to just be careful and see what happens. But then, the first day is key with any professor or instructor."

"I remember my first day as a teaching assistant." It looked like a happy memory.

The dean observed, "You didn't have any trouble as an assistant, from what I've heard."

Heyes said, "No. I enjoyed it and won an award for teaching, so I guess the student results were good. Well, they didn't know my real name. I was just a guy with a western accent and a few extra years."

The professor nodded. "That would have made it easier. But didn't you take on teaching a class for Professor Homer when his wife was ill and died?"

Heyes corrected the dean. "Two classes – one undergraduate and one grad. No PhD students, so with the dean's permission, I was able to carry it off. But it wasn't easy to take that on. Running your own classes is a lot different than being an assistant, as you know much better than I do."

The dean spoke with compassion, "It must have been hard – and being such friends with the Homers would have added emotional stress."

Heyes was reluctant to bring up his true predicament as that past May, but felt he had to, "And, well, I knew I was going to be arrested at some point. It was for murder, you know, and even if I got off, as I did, that trial would lead to the robbery trials. And those would have me locked away for the rest of my life if those four governors didn't come through with the amnesty. There was no promise made in that direction."

Now Heyes could see distress in dean Paulson's face. "My God! How did you carry on with teaching with that hanging over you? Knowing you could be locked up for life, or even hung? And this would have been when you were also writing your thesis – the tension must have been incredible."

Heyes nodded and took a sip of coffee that had grown cold. But he needed some liquid for his suddenly dry mouth. "Um, yeah. But I was, and I am, used to dealing with tension. The Kid and I actually used to get a kick out of getting away from sheriffs and bounty hunters. It was like a sport for us. We got caught now and then, of course, but we always got away one way or another. But this last spring - knowing I would have to give myself up and couldn't resort to jail break - that I might hang – it did get a bit distracting."

The dean could hardly believe how unexcited Heyes was about all this. "A bit distracting! Good God, man! You were wanted dead or alive just four months ago."

The former outlaw shrugged and went on casually. "Sure. Yeah. And for twenty years before that, so you see, I was used to it. The only thing that was different, like I said, was knowing we couldn't use our, um, gifts to get away. That we really had to count on the law this time. Something we never trusted before, for good reason. And it did let us down, after all. Until they let us out of prison, we thought it was all over. Those three days in the Wyoming Pen seemed like thirty years at least, with that corrupt warden trying to make me work for him."

"Did I hear correctly that you were locked in solitary confinement on bread and water and later put to work driving railroad spikes? And beaten?" The dean could not hide that he was as eager for the details as any reporter would have been.

Heyes was far more disconcerted by the dean's compassion than by the recent memories. "Um, yes. That's all true, though the beating wasn't serious. You can see the scar on my cheek – that was the worst of it."

The dean shook his head in wonder. "And now you want to teach college. Well, all I can say is, if you give teaching the courage and determination that you put into going straight, it ought to be a snap."

The determined applicant spoke solemnly. "If someone will hire me. Before we went straight, I could count on myself and my partner, and our men, to do what I wanted. Now I have to lean on people like you – and boards of directors. Someone has to say yes. I can't force them."

The dean sighed. "That's all too true. And if you do get the chance – your students - how do you think Harvard students, in particular, might react to learning about your past?"

Heyes looked into the dean's eyes. "I think you might know that better than I do. I've had only limited contact with Harvard undergraduate students and that was when I was an undergrad myself. What do you think?"

Paulson was thoughtful. "It's an interesting question and I don't blame you for sending it back in my direction. I'm really not sure how much our students might have read about your criminal career in books, magazines, and newspapers."

The ex-outlaw speculated. "Actually, more knowledge is probably better than less. Those who've read the most would know about the care the K . . . Mr. Curry and I always took not to hurt people. Those who just know I made my living robbing banks might be afraid of me. But then, they would know you decided to hire me. I hope they have faith in their own school."

"I hope they do, too." Dean Paulson smiled. "And I hope they would soon trust you. And enjoy the practical demonstrations."

Heyes' eyebrows rose. "I suppose Harvard boys enjoy blowing things up as much as any young men. But just explosions is a pretty limited field. The narrative can go in countless other directions about mining, war, architecture, finance, engineering, astrophysics."

The dean said, "The mining and military applications of your theories I had heard about, but astrophysics? I hadn't heard that you were interested in the field."

Heyes spoke with increasing fervor, "Well, it's a fairly new interest and I haven't been in a position to do much about it, yet. I've just been reading a lot. But yes, I think that's the ultimate direction where my theories will be of use. I hope so, anyway. It's the largest field there is, of course. To help explain the behavior of the cosmos in both microcosm and macrocosm – I feel sure that that's going to be the great arena for mathematics and physics in the next century. How could it not be? The rules we understand on earth are only the beginning of understanding the grander world in and around it."

"So, do you see yourself chasing those questions here, at Harvard in the long term? Can such a famous Westerner be at home in the East?" asked the dean.

"I feel sure I could, if I was taken seriously as a scholar and a teacher," said Heyes, who wondered if he was being honest or only answering as an applicant was expected to.

The dean studied Heyes' intense brown eyes as he asked, "Well, there are limits to that for a man with only an MA. Would you want to go on for a doctorate?"

Heyes answered with enthusiasm. "Yes, I'm eager to do that, when I can. It's the only way to go as far as I want to go in the field. But first, I need to get my feet on the ground and pay off some loans from the BA and MA. My wife and I have been asked by the state to foster a boy I met in the Wyoming State Pen and we've said we will if we can. And we want to have children of our own. So finances and family considerations will dictate a lot of what I can do. But ultimately, I would be very disappointed if I couldn't get a PhD."

The dean smiled. This was the right answer. "Good. Because anyone who stays long with this faculty needs a doctorate, and a publishing history such as you've already started on. I'm impressed that the state of Wyoming trusts you so much so soon after letting you out of prison. But I can see why they do. If you did well and impressed the right people, we could perhaps see our way to paying for that doctorate and providing enough of a stipend to support a family, living simply. But simple living would be a brief thing, before a full professor's salary began. But I'm getting way ahead of where we are yet."

The dean gazed into the shining eyes of the aspiring professor before him. "Yes, I can envision your going a long, long way, Hannibal Heyes, from blowing up safes to being a brilliant researcher and teacher. And who knows how far your students can go?"

"That is the central question, isn't it? My students. They're what the whole thing is about." Heyes spoke quietly, but the passion behind the words was undeniable.

The dean, too, was speaking at the heart of what mattered to him the most. "Yes. The question is, are our Harvard students the right ones for you to teach as you begin your career?"

"Well, are they?" Heyes asked straight out. He saw no reason not ask the dean if he wanted to hire a former outlaw to teach at Harvard.

The dean answered as directly. "I'm considering those questions, but I'm far from the only one who needs to do so. There are other professors, and the board of directors, of course. I think I've asked all my questions, Heyes. What questions do you have for me?"

The aspiring professor spoke with quiet intensity. "I just asked the only ones that count. I know about the resources, the libraries, the classrooms, the quality of the professor, and the quality of students. When you can answer my central questions about whether or not you want me here, we can move forward."

"So we can, Mr. Heyes. Or not. As I say, there are others who need to weigh in on that. And I'm still considering my own decision." The dean spoke reticently. He wasn't promising anything.

Dean Paulsen sighed, straightened his tie, and seemed resigned as he said, "Mr. Heyes, I think that concludes things for us. But we have another committee member who needs to meet with you. His name is Doctor Stevenson. He's waiting in a little conference room down the hall." Heyes could see that Paulson wasn't happy about something.

"Oh," said Heyes in surprise. "What's his position?"

The dean's warm expression had vanished. "He's a professor in our college of medicine. He's on the faculty committee. So don't try to talk advanced mathematics with him. And, uh, just be careful what you say."

Heyes was taken aback. "I'm not sure what you mean."

"You'll find out soon enough. I trust you to handle yourself so you don't harm your chances," said Paulson. He stood up and gestured for Heyes to follow him. The ex-outlaw and Dean Paulsen stood up and went down the hall.

As they walked, the dean stopped for a moment, faced Heyes, and said, "Heyes, I, um, just want you to know that this wasn't my idea. It was the board that insisted you speak to Dr. Stevenson."

By now, the former outlaw felt like he was about to face some rival gunman. But he had no gun with him – only his wits.

Historical Note:

The description of Harvard's University Hall is, at least from the exterior, correct. Whether the deans' offices were located there at that time, as they are now, I have not been able to determine. Although the names of the particular faculty used here are fictitious, Harvard did have an excellent department of mathematics in the early 1890s.