"Well, Healy, what do you think of the Boulder County Fair?" asked Jed Curry as he enjoyed a plateful of fried chicken and coleslaw at a picnic table under a brightly striped tent. The day was fine and sunny. Crowds of happy Boulder County natives were all around the two law officers, enjoying themselves.

"Seems pretty much like the county fair back in Wyoming, to tell you the truth, Sheriff," said the deputy, who was enjoying his own fried chicken. He took a swig of beer and smiled. "A real nice break from regular work, ain't it? I feel for poor Al, back in town watching the store while we have fun."

"When I get to go around with a lady this beautiful on my arm, I ain't complaining," replied Curry, giving his wife a proud look as she nibbled daintily at her corn on the cob. The sounds of loud talk, laughter and a mechanical carousel organ joyfully filled the air.

"But let me tell you, Billy," added the sheriff in a lower voice, under cover of the music and leaning close to his deputy, "this ain't just a day off. Not at all. At any fair, you better keep your eyes peeled. Most of it's good fun. But there's always pick-pocketing and crooked games and sometimes worse stuff going on. I ought to know – did some of it myself in the old days. Some of these guys travel from fair to fair all over this part of the country, taking advantage of the locals. So let me know if you see anything you think might be trouble, alright?"

"Sure thing, boss," said Healy, seemingly not at all put off. "Right now, I want to go see what's going on in that tent over there." He pointed. "Could be something shady, you never know." He winked at his boss. The tent he had pointed at had scantily clad ladies crudely painted on it. A huckster stood outside bragging over the pulchritude of the strippers performing inside.

"Watch yourself, Billy," said Cat. "Just wearing that badge won't keep you from getting robbed or taken, yourself, while your eyes are, um, elsewhere." She grinned. Mrs. Curry had attended many a fair in her day.

Billy finished his beer and set off toward the tent in question, his interest in no way discouraged by the warnings he had received.

"I'd rather go have a look at the horse barn, myself. No girl is going to outdo the one who's wearing my ring," said the Kid as he got to his feet with the help of his wife. He started on his way with his crutches, then stopped suddenly to allow a bunch of gleefully laughing small children to run by just in front of him. The sheriff was enjoying the last fair he anticipated attending without children of his own to worry over.

The sheriff and his lady inspected leggy thoroughbreds, powerfully muscled quarter horses, graceful Arabians, and a host of powerful draft horses. Then they went on to see beef and dairy cattle. The coats of the all animals gleamed brightly from the currying and brushing their proud owners had given them. The Kid and Cat sat in the rickety wooden grandstand and enjoyed cheering for their favorites at a couple of horse races, then got up to look around some more. Curry grew sick of limping around on crutches, but he wasn't going to let it spoil his fun.

Jed Curry swore he had no interest in showing off his skills with firearms, but somehow, the Curries found themselves loitering around the shooting gallery. There were targets representing ducks, deer, wolves, and even swans. Some targets were still, but the most difficult to hit, with the highest scores indicated, were moving in straight lines or around circles. Behind the booth a pair of boys sweated as they turned cranks to drive the machinery. "Step right up! Step right up! Hit a duck and win a prize!" proclaimed the barker in his loud plaid suit. As the Kid watched, a man in a cowboy hat paid for a ticket and took up a pellet gun from the rack at the barker's side.

"There you go, my lad," said the barker, "Let's see if you can win a doll for your gal!"

The cowboy took a shot that blew past a slowly parading deer. "Oh, not quite, try again!" cried the barker. The next shot was another miss, and so was the one after, drawing chuckles from a few young men and women who had gathered to watch. The cowboys gave up in disgust, turning in his rife to a smattering of good-natured boos.

"Say, Roy, you can do better than that!" said a man in a straw hat to a young miner who was with him.

"You bet I can!" crowed the youngster. "Here, let me try that. I'll win that bottle of whiskey, sure enough."

The miner hit a stationary goose with his first pellet, but when he tried for moving targets he kept missing. He, too, gave up without winning a prize. The Kid shook his head, "Nobody decent there. Not worth watching," he remarked softly to his wife."

"Why don't you try?" asked Cat, who rarely had the pleasure of watching her husband shoot.

The famous gunman shook his head and spoke quietly. "No – don't want to attract attention. Most of these folks aren't from L-ville, so they don't know me. I'd like to leave it that way."

The Kid looked through the crowd, trying to keep his mind on enforcing the law rather than showing off for his wife. Suddenly, Cat felt him go tense. Without explanation, Curry stayed to watch the men trying their skill at the shooting gallery, despite what he had said. His wife moved a few steps from his side, having a feeling that something beyond pure fun was going on.

The next shooter was a dark bearded man who managed to hit enough moving ducks and deer to win a prize. A blonde man took off his cowboy hat to take his own try and hit even more targets, including several moving ones. A noisy crowd began to gather. "Gabby, try to beat that guy!" yelled a friend of the bearded man, who obligingly took back up the pellet gun to see if he could beat his rival's score. More people gathered to see if he could do it.

As Cat watched, she saw her husband spot his deputy and gesture unobtrusively for him to come over. Healy, realizing that this was business, took an indirect route to Curry's side so the meeting wouldn't be obvious to strangers. The two spoke for a few minutes, too softly for anyone else to hear them. Then dark-haired Billy nodded and disappeared into the crowd. But Cat was watching carefully. She noticed that he spoke to another man who was a regular at Christy's place. Moments later, Billy's drinking buddy yelled, "Hey, Curry!" so everyone in the area could hear him, "You could beat either one of those guys with both eyes closed! Go on, show them!"

People began staring and listening. "Aw, I shouldn't," said Curry, shaking his head.

The name "Kid Curry" began to be heard among the crowd.

"Shoot, Kid, shoot! Let us see you!" cried a young man Cat had often seen in Christy's Place.

"Yeah, Kid, let's see what you can do!" cried another Louisville man.

"Aw, it wouldn't be fair," said the Kid, making a dismissive gesture with his hand.

But a denser and denser crowd gathered. Finally, as several more young men urged him to try and someone bought him a ticket, Kid Curry set aside his crutches. He balanced carefully on his good leg and his cast, and took up a pellet gun. He tried a shot at a stationary swan marked with a low score of only five points and narrowly missed. There was a general laugh and the Kid grinned in embarrassment. Cat noticed that Billy Healy had moved from his boss's side and was making his way back to the outskirts of the crowd. "Come on, Kid, shoot like you mean it!" shouted a familiar Louisville drinker.

The Kid sighted down the pellet gun's barrel for a minute and more. "You ever gonna shoot?" the barker asked at last in annoyed tones.

Suddenly the Kid let loose five shots in quick succession. The five highest score moving targets all went down in hardly more than five seconds. The crowd went wild, men throwing their hats in the air and boys shouting. "Wow, Kid, that was something!" cried a boy.

But Cat saw that her husband was paying no real attention to either the large doll the barker was handing him as his prize or to the surging crowd around him. Jed handed the doll to Cat, saying quietly, "For our daughter, honey, whether she comes this time or later," then he turned quickly and limped as rapidly as he could past the backslappers and toward the back of the crowd that had gathered to see him shoot.

The Kid finally pushed his way to where Billy was struggling to put handcuffs on a dandy in a showy handle bar mustache and a bowler hat. "Well, Streeter, you're finally going down," said Kid Curry as he held his loaded, cocked pistol aimed at the man.

"What are you talking about, sheriff? I never have seen you before in my life." asked the man trying to avoid the handcuffs. In a thick foreign accent he said, "My name is Hercules Pannopolis and I'm just here having a good time in this lovely state of Colorado."

Curry laughed. "Well, if a good time involves fraud and picking pockets, I believe it, Streeter. I am placing you under arrest on about fifty counts of each in Colorado and a half dozen other states and territories. Take him away, Billy."

"Sir, you are mistaking me for someone else! I am an honest man!" cried the man in the mustache, with his accent somehow getting a little less so his protests were easy to understand.

"No, I ain't forget your face and your voice, minus the fake accent, from when you worked on con jobs with me and Heyes ten years back," said Curry. Then he turned apologetically to his wife. "Sorry, honey, I got to head back to the office with Billy and get this guy booked. You better come along in the wagon."

"Oh well, I'm tired anyhow and it's getting hot," said Cat as she followed her husband, his deputy, and the reluctant conman they were hauling away toward where their wagon was hitched. "So, Jed, you did all that fancy shooting just to distract the crowd while Billy snuck up on this man, Streeter?"

"I did it to distract the crowd and give Streeter an engraved invitation to try to rob somebody. When he reached for that pocket, Billy reached for him," said the Kid. "Didn't need Heyes for this plan."

When they all got to the wagon, Jed held his pistol on Streeter while Billy patted the man down. "Keep going, Billy, feel every spot right down to his socks," urged Curry. Billy found stolen silver dollars, dimes, and five dollar bills stuffed into more pockets than Cat could easily count that were unobtrusively sewn into unexpected parts of the arrested man's clothing, including inside his hat, inside his vest, and inside his suspenders. There was even a small bundle of bills behind his collar. Billy laughed harder and harder as he kept discovering more stolen money, even, as Curry had said, in the con man's striped black and white socks. "There, I think that's evidence enough," said Curry. He gave the money into Cat's keeping, since it took a purse to contain it all.

"Alright, Streeter, into the wagon. I'm taking you back to my cage," said the sheriff at last. He helped his wife into the wagon, then clambered up beside her with his deputy's help.

They rode off back to town, three of them with smiles on their faces and one looking pretty darned glum.

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As the wagon pulled up in front of the jail with Billy Healy driving, a stranger appeared in the company of a photographer with a big camera on a tripod. "Kid, can I have a word about that man you just nabbed?" asked the unfamiliar cigar chomping man with a pad of paper open in front of him.

As he climbed clumsily down from the wagon, Jed Curry gave the reporter a hostile look. "No." The sheriff spat into the dust. "I'm busy. Get your lies someplace else. And stay away from the guy in handcuffs or you'll regret it."

The reporter pleaded, "Aw, Kid, don't you want to warn citizens about the dangers of trusting men like that criminal? It would be a public service for you speak about it."

As Healy, with the help of Al Kelly, wrestled the con man out of the wagon, the sheriff stopped and turned to face the reporter. He growled, "My name is Sheriff Jedediah Curry. I enforce the law. Don't call me by an outlaw's name. Especially not in front of my wife." Cat was still sitting in the wagon.

The reporter turned solemn. "Yes, sir, Mr. Sheriff. May I please get a brief statement from you?" The man from the local paper, met with irritated silence as Curry turned away, stuck a card in the sheriff's vest pocket. "My name's Carl Schultz. I'll be by your office in a half hour." Meanwhile the Louisville News' photographer grinned from behind his tripod. He had captured a view of the arrested man trying to hide behind his bowler hat while the handsome young deputies smiled at the camera.

Curry barked, "Healy, Kelly, stop mugging for the damn camera and get that man into the cage. Get started with the paperwork."

"Well, I'm a fifth wheel here. I'm heading home, Jed," said Cat Curry from the seat of the wagon. "Thanks for a fun, and very entertaining, day at the fair, my love."

"See you later, honey," said Curry. "You alright getting home on your own?"

"I'm pregnant, not an idiot, Jedediah Curry," said Cat crisply. She took up the reins and turned the wagon for home.

The sheriff sighed at the irritability of pregnant wives, then hoisted his heavy plaster cast up the step from the street to the boardwalk and then across the threshold into his office.

Curry dropped into his desk chair with relief, placing his cast on a chair padded by a pillow his wife had brought him. Healy had already vanished into the back of the office with Al Kelly and the man they had just arrested. A few minutes later Curry called over his shoulder, "You got the paperwork on Streeter going, Healy?"

"Yeah, boss, but he says his name ain't Streeter. He says he's Ronald Duncan Barkley and he signed his name that way on the form," said Healy, sliding a small stack of sheets onto the sheriff's desk. "Maybe Streeter is an alias?"

Curry looked down at the sheets his deputy had filled out. "I don't know what his real name is - just that he used Streeter with us on the jobs we did together and that's what I've seen on posters. Of course, he had a dozen aliases for the public. I'll write a telegram to the central office in Denver and you send it. Maybe they have more or newer stuff on him than I know. It's been nine years since I worked with the man, after all."

"Why don't you just call them in Denver?" asked Al Kelly as he came out from the back area that held the cells.

"I want them to have all this in writing with a telegram. I'll call them later, when they've had the chance to read it and look up some stuff in the files," said the sheriff as he began to write on the telegram pad he kept on his desk.

Just then the door opened and Carl Schultz walked in, still smoking the end of his bad cigar. "Good day, Sheriff Curry," said the reporter.

"So you know the man you just arrested at the train station?" asked the reporter, who was already taking notes on his pad.

The Kid paused and thought. Then he said, "Yeah. He was hired help on some cons Heyes and I worked on, between hitting banks and trains. I recognized him in the crowd at the fair. I thought he'd recognize me, so I sent my deputy after him." Curry went on, "I know he's got bunco boys out looking for him in this state and Wyoming, and Texas, too."

The reporter was writing rapidly. "Bunco boys? Pardon me, Sheriff, but since you worked in that area on the wrong side of the law, you know some words our readers might not be familiar with."

The sheriff impatiently translated for the news man. "Streeter's wanted for fraud and the cops who work on fraud cases are looking for him. That clear enough for you? He's also wanted for theft and a few other things. And by the way, he's calling himself Ronald Barkley, now. So if anyone's had dealings with a man by that name at the fair or anyplace, or the name he was using at the fair – Hercules Pannopolis, they should come and tell me about it."

Curry stared at the reporter. "By the way, when did you join up with the L-ville News? I ain't seen you before."

"I got into town last week, Sheriff," said Schultz, taking the cigar out of his mouth and spitting into the spittoon near the desk. He dropped his cigar butt into the sheriff's ash tray. "I was in Wyoming a few weeks back – heard a good deal about you from the locals there. You're a legend, I don't have to tell you. There's lots of happiness about your amnesty."

The blonde former outlaw smiled. "Glad to hear it. You got more questions?"

The reporter pulled a match out of his pocket, lit it on the bottom on his shoe and started up a fresh cigar. Evidently he had plenty of questions left. "So you pulled off some pretty fancy shooting to attract a crowd and catch this man pick pocketing?"

"That's right," said Curry. "These guys love crowds, 'specially when they're distracted by something. Gives 'em a great chance to pick a few pockets."

"Yeah, I guess," said the reporter as he took rapid notes. "Do you suspect Mr. Streeter has accomplices at the fair?"

Curry leaned back in his chair, making himself comfortable. "Not that I saw, but could be. Warn folks they should always watch for guys they don't know offering them business deals or trying to distract them with shell games or anything like that. Anything that sounds too good to be true probably is. And as always, you just got to watch out and don't get all distracted in a public place where there are strangers around. I'd be obliged if you'd put that in the piece you're doing."

The reporter nodded and wrote down the law-enforcement clichés. "Sure thing, Sheriff Curry. Since you turned from outlaw to sheriff, do guys like Streeter give you a hard time?"

Curry laughed. "'Course they do! Nobody wants to get arrested. I never took to it. And getting locked up by somebody you know is worse. Trust me, I know. He said I had the wrong guy, but I know him. Have known him for ten years thought I ain't seen him in a long time."

"So, do your former colleagues like that pose a danger to you?" the reporter stood with his pencil poised.

Curry sighed, hardly noticing that the questions had switched from the arrest to the life of the sheriff. "Some do. Streeter's no gunman and wouldn't hurt a fly any way but in the pocketbook, but plenty of gunslingers out there ain't so nice. Criminals don't never like it when an outlaw goes over to the law. He knows too much. I have to watch my back like a damn hawk."

The reporter ventured a more personal question. "Do you miss having Heyes to help you?"

"I can look out for myself." Jed didn't hide his irritation at the question.

The reporter grinned and took a long puff on his cigar. "I suppose so. Did you want to become a sheriff?"

Curry snorted. "I'd prefer to just run our business and raise our family. But when four governors give you amnesty, it's a pretty good idea to do what they say." Curry watched the reporter taking notes and realized that he had said something that could be turned against him. He was wishing he had his partner to help him watch his mouth, but he had to do it himself. So the sheriff added, "And it's an important job. I know that. It means keeping myself safe, and my family, and all the folks here abouts safe. That's a damned important job. I care about these folks here in Louisville. I do my best."

The reporter was writing like mad, holding back a big smile. He had hit the jackpot with inside dope on Kid Curry. If he could keep getting juicy quotes like this, his piece would run all across the West – maybe even hit the East Coast papers. He would get a by-line for sure. Schultz just prayed Curry didn't realize how much he was giving away, or he would clam up fast. "How long have you lived here in Louisville, Sheriff? And what brought you?"

Curry lit a cigar of his own and settled back in his chair with a self-satisfied air before he answered. "I been here in Louisville almost six years. Heyes got shot in the head when we were running from a posse, about two years after we went straight. I had to get him to a doctor. Cat Christy took us in and called the doc."

"Did Miss Christy suspect who you were?" Schultz asked cautiously, aware that his source could dry up any second.

Jed Curry recalled the awful night as he answered. "No, she just knew we were two guys in trouble. Heyes was out cold and bleeding bad. His horse was lame, so we were up double on my horse."

The reporter was writing frantically. "So a lovely lady took in a pair of desperate outlaws. Quite a story. I understand your wife is expecting a child?"

The Kid smiled happily. "Yeah, she's due this fall. We're building a little house." Jed thought happily about the future he had planned for his family. Then, suddenly, he remembered to whom he was talking and how much trouble he could cause if he said the wrong thing. "Wait a minute, isn't this supposed to be about that pick pocket we arrested?"

"Well, the sheriff who made the arrest is an important part of the story," Schultz tried to keep his subject relaxed, but the sheriff's trusting mood was gone.

"It was my deputy, Billy Healy, who nabbed him. Get out of here, Schultz. I've told you way more than enough!" barked the suddenly wary lawman.

The reporter tried to see if he could manage to get one more usable quote from the famous former outlaw, "What's the latest news about Mr. Heyes? Has he gotten a job teaching yet?"

"Out! Now!" Curry gestured emphatically toward the door.

A few hours later, Jed Curry went home. Cat had forgiven him. She had a pitcher of cold lemonade waiting for her thirsty husband.

"Thanks, honey," said the sheriff, gratefully kissing his wife. "You saw that reporter from the News earlier. He was one of those traveling-type reporters. I hope I didn't tell him too much about the con man in the cage, or about us. But I needed to warn the locals, and the paper's the best way to do it. This guy is an old con artist I remember from when Heyes and me worked with him."

"Heyes always thinks you tell people too much," observed Cat.

Jed nodded. "Maybe he's right. But you know Heyes. He don't trust people. He'd rather lie than tell folks the truth any old day – or folks he don't know, anyhow. The college interviews must be driving him up the wall. I'm afraid I told that reporter, Schultz, that you're due this fall."

Cat chuckled, patted her belly, and kissed her husband again. "Honey, anyone could look at me and know that. And you know how newspaper men hang out in saloons, including ours. Everybody in town knows we're going to be parents."

"Yeah. I always kinda' take newspaper stories with a grain of salt. From what we see at our place, it seems half of the reporters write from rumors they heard in bars, and most of them are drunk when they get their stories. At least Schultz got his dope from me. I just hope it wasn't too much."

Cat sighed and gazed lovingly at her man. "It's over and done now, sweetheart. Sit down and I'll bring you some dinner"

"Thank you, darling."

Cat was about to head back to the kitchen when she thought better of it and asked, "Oh, Jed, I haven't heard anything from Heyes. He said the Harvard interview was supposed to be today. He's got real high hopes, I'm sure. But he's anxious over it. I wish I'd heard. It's later out there than it is there, but we still haven't heard. I hope it doesn't mean bad news."

Curry looked up at his wife. "Harvard or no Harvard, Heyes will manage, honey." The sheriff paused a moment and thought. "But if he comes to stay with us, I'll get out the wax seals for the liquor store again. I hope I don't need to. But I'll be ready, just in case."

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When he had finished his dinner, the Kid lurched to his feet and leaned on his crutches. He limped back to his office and went to the back area where the cells were. Billy Healy was walking up and down, watching the confidence man he had put behind bars, hoping to get some information out of the man. Streeter was lying on his bunk with his bowler hat over his face, ignoring the deputy.

"You alright in there, Streeter?" asked Curry brusquely.

"I've had finer accommodations in my time, but this will do for the nonce. My name isn't Streeter – that was just my nom de jour, Curry," said the confidence artist smoothly, his voice muffled by his hat. The foreign accent had vanished. "My name is Ronald Barkley, as I told your man here."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever you say, Streeter," growled the sheriff. "Go up front, Healy."

"Yes, sir," said the deputy and followed orders.

"Now, what were you saying?" asked Curry in a low voice. "Or what were you not saying in mixed company?"

The confidence artist sat up and removed the hat from his face, revealing a pair of sharply focused grey eyes fixed angrily on the sheriff. "You're gonna let me out of here, Curry. It would have been better for you if you'd listened to me and known better than to lock me up. I saw you've got a lovely wife with a baby on the way. I wouldn't want to put them in danger, but I will if I have to do it."

Curry glared at the former colleague he had never liked. "I'm a sheriff. You're wanted. I locked you up. It's as simple as that, Streeter."

The con man stood and fixed the sheriff with a hard gaze. "We both know it's not that simple. I know things about you, Curry. Things you would rather the governors who gave you amnesty didn't know. Things that would put you on this side of the bars, if not at the end of a noose. Tell the deputies you made a mistake. I'm not the man you knew as Streeter. Let me loose."

Curry's blue-eyed gaze was just as hard staring back in the other direction. "The governors know all about me, Streeter. There's nothing you can tell them that I haven't been granted amnesty on."

Streeter put his hands in his pockets. "Oh? Are you that sure?"

Curry's voice was hard. "I know what you've seen me do. They know about all that. I've got amnesty on all that. You don't have any dirt on me that's gonna do me any harm."

The con man went on. "Oh? Are you so sure I couldn't possibly know things beyond what I've actually seen? Are you so sure I've never heard anybody talk? That I can't put two and two together? You've got a good new career going here, and a nice family. Don't you want to make sure they're safe? Do you really want to take the chance that I can't make trouble for you with what I know?"

The blue eyes and the grey met in the striped shadows cast by the sun coming in through the barred window. The Kid was using his famous poker face to hide his trepidation. He had no way of knowing what intelligence might have come the way of his old colleague, or what the man might be able to convincingly lie about. There was a long, taut silence. Curry felt a drop of sweat run down the center of his back.

"You trying to con me, now, Streeter? Well, I don't buy it. I've come clean; there's no dirt on me to tell unless you're lying. And any lawman or judge is gonna know how famous you are for lying. They wouldn't believe you if you said the sun rises in the east. So tell it to the judge, or shut up." Curry turned and limped back out to the front room. As he sat down at his desk again, he pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his brow.

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"Mr. Heyes," said Dean Paulson, looking into the conference room. The interview subject sat alone, staring blankly into space.

The soft words failed to elicit any response. The dean repeated a little louder, "Mr. Heyes!" Still, the ex-outlaw seemed not to hear him. The dean stepped into the room and closed the door before raising his voice more. "Hannibal!"

That got a response. The former outlaw sprang up from his seat with his eyes blazing. "Shut up!" The voice was that of the outlaw leader putting down some brash underling. Seeing who was speaking, Heyes quickly recovered himself. "Oh, Dean, I'm sorry. I didn't mean . . . please call me Joshua if you want to be friendly."

The dean sounded startled. "I'm sorry, Mr. Heyes, I didn't mean to be overly familiar. But I couldn't get your attention. You seemed completely distracted."

"Guess I was." The academic candidate realized that he had let show something that he should have kept private – the cut-throat outlaw leader that he supposed would always be there beneath the suited academic. Giving the dean that clear a view of his past couldn't help his chances to teach at Harvard, but there was little he could do to cover it up now.

The dean looked at the ex-outlaw in concern. "I hate to ask, and you don't have to answer, but I can't help wondering. How did it go with the doctor?"

Heyes winced at the recent memory. "Thanks for the warning you gave me. You were right. Dr. Stevenson put me through the wringer. Man he's persistent! And rude. Does he do that to everybody?"

The dean said uneasily, "No, not everybody. Just, um, you know . . ."

"Criminals. Like me," The hopeful applicant felt another stab of anxiety over what a foreign and potentially dangerous being he must seem in this setting.

The dean shift from one foot to the other. "Well, yes. He's not normally on the committee, as you could guess. But he's gotten the board to want to go all experimental about it. There's one man, especially, with these modish notions about psychologically analyzing all the candidates." Heyes hid a grin. Even in 1891, "modish" was a very old-fashioned word. "And you must admit that they have some reason to be apprehensive about a candidate with your, um, record."

"I suppose so." The former outlaw turned to face his potential dean.

The dean, too, felt uncomfortable. "So, he gave you a very hard time?"

The potential professor nodded. "Yes. He dug up about every awful thing he could think to ask about. And I'm afraid there's plenty to dig up. He more than implied that my past – the violent things that happened when I was a boy - might explain my crimes."

Paulson sighed and nodded. "Oh, yes, that's his theory. I suppose not just his, but I wouldn't know the others in his field who agree with him. I can only suppose that you're a very appealing subject for a criminal psychologist."

Heyes gave a short laugh. "I guess. I felt like the turkey at Thanksgiving dinner. There's easily enough bad stuff from when I was a boy to bolster his pet theory pretty darned well."

The dean said, "Too bad. I mean, it's too bad you had to go through the original violence. And I do hate to have such a rude man proven right about anything."

Heyes shrugged. "He's no charmer. I don't know if he's right all the time – though maybe so in my case. I do think some of those western outlaws were just born mean. Compared to them, actually, the Kid I had a reputation as practically like a pair of choir boys. You know – we didn't like to hurt people. Most of the other guys didn't care. But this doctor - well he made me tell him about very uncomfortable things that I don't like to recall. And when he started in about my partner, that did it. I'm afraid I got mad at him."

The dean's eyes widened. "You didn't . . ."

The former outlaw gave the dean a wry smile. "No. I didn't hit him, though I felt like it. I cussed at him only a couple of times. That makes me feel virtuous considering what he had said to me. I might feel better if I had hit him."

The dean was said, "I really am sorry, Mr. Heyes. You didn't deserve that grilling, I'm sure."

The interviewee admitted, "Maybe I did, I don't know. That doctor made me feel like – I don't know – like some kind of side show freak . . . I've put up with a lot of tough questions the last few months, but nobody gave me the creeps like that doctor. I hope I never have to see him again." Heyes shivered in retrospect.

Dean Paulson really did look grieved by the thought of what this candidate had enduring during the second part of his interview, as well as during the violent past so forcefully recalled. "Well, if you work here, you might have to see him now and then. But not too often, since he's not exactly a mathematician. You don't think he'll say you're incorrigibly evil and recommend against you, do you?" It was clear that the dean wasn't eager to have anyone speak against Heyes. The ex-outlaw found this encouraging.

The ex-outlaw hastened to reassure the dean. "No. He actually said he thought I was a good guy. No saint, to quote him, but a good guy. That's good enough for me – it's just a matter of whether it's good enough for you." Heyes studied the dean to see his reaction.

Paulson said, "Honestly, we'll have to see. There are other candidates and there's the board to get by. So I really can't tell you anything."

The applicant nodded. "I understand. Well, thank you for checking up on me, dean. You've been very decent and I appreciate it."

"Well, I like you and I would think other people would like you, too, given the opportunity. I really shouldn't invite you, since it's against policy, but would you like to go with me to get a bite of lunch and maybe some liquid refreshment?"

Heyes answered sharply, "No!"

The dean was surprised. Heyes added. "Sorry – I mean, no thank you. I'd be glad of some lunch, but much as I could use a drink, I'd better not have one. And I'd better eat on my own. I don't want to get you into trouble, or me, either. I've learned to be careful of authority and rules. I know to be as careful of the appearance of impropriety as of impropriety itself. With my past, I don't need to give people any extra excuses to think worse of me."

The dean sighed regretfully. "You're probably right. I guess paying attention to authority is a pretty new sensation for you, Mr. Heyes. Perhaps you still know how to find your way around it now and then?" The academic dean smiled pleasantly but questioningly at the former outlaw.

Heyes answered earnestly, "I've been straight for almost eight years. I know how to pay attention to authority. I'm more used to being my own boss, but I know how to take orders. Hey – I've been a graduate teaching assistant. That's pretty low on the totem pole, I don't have to tell you. And I'm doing books in a sweat shop these days. That's a long way from robbing trains."

"Come on, Heyes, off the record. You still know how to get your own way when it won't put you in danger, don't you?" The dean winked at his favored applicant.

"Well, I do know better than to say a word on that subject to a potential boss," said that applicant, winking back.

Paulson smiled. "It's been a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Heyes. The best of luck to you, here or wherever you wind up teaching. I know you'll do well, in any case. You have ample gifts to assure that." He extended his hand. Heyes took it gladly.

The dean hurried down the hall and out of the building. Heyes walked more slowly in the other direction. He put his head in the dean's office door. "Miss Ritter?"

The secretary turned gladly to see the famous former outlaw calling her name. "Mr. Heyes! I shouldn't ask, but how did it go?"

Heyes shrugged. "With your boss, I think well enough. No interview is easy, but I liked the dean and he actually said he liked me. With the other person I had to speak with, well . . . I think it came out reasonably well, but it wasn't any fun."

Miss Ritter's face fell. "Oh, you mean Dr. Stevenson. The dean was worried about that, but there was nothing he could do to stop it. I hate to think what he asked you."

Heyes said, honestly, "If you knew the answers I had to give him, you'd hate it even more. And no, I don't care to explain that. But I have a question for you. Is there a telephone I could use in private? I'd like to call my wife, if I could. I'll be glad to pay for it."

"There's a phone, but of course you don't need to pay us. Here," Miss Ritter got to her feet. "Let me show you to a room down the hall where we keep a telephone for the use of the students."

The secretary, happy to get to spend a few extra minutes with the attractive former outlaw, showed Heyes into a small, plain office where a telephone stood on a desk. "Here, talk all you like. There are no lines of students this time of year."

"Thank you, Miss Ritter. I truly do appreciate all the help you've given me." Heyes gave the secretary a smile. She returned it warmly before she closed the door. Heyes had a feeling Miss Ritter's friends were going to be hearing about him for some time.

The aspiring professor sat alone for a moment, composing his thoughts. He wasn't going to tell Beth everything he had been through. For one thing, he didn't think he could stand to go through it again in detail. And for another thing, it would upset her.

Heyes picked up the phone. "Hello, Central? Could you put me through to the Leutze Clinic for Aphasia Patients in Manhattan – number 68? Thank you."

There was a wait, but it was much shorter than when Heyes was calling from New York to Colorado. "Hello, Leutze Clinic?"

Polly the receptionist answered in her business-like official voice. "Yes, this is the Leutze Clinic. What can I do for you?"

Heyes smiled into the phone. "Don't you know my voice on the telephone by now, Polly? This is Hannibal Heyes, from Harvard. Gosh, maybe I shouldn't work here – too many h's."

Polly laughed. "Oh, Heyes! I hope the news is good. I'll get Beth for you. Then I'll step away for a few minutes to give you some privacy."

"Thanks, Polly," said Heyes.

Soon Beth Heyes was on the line with her husband "Darling! How are you? What's your news?"

Heyes said, "I'm fine. I'm still a little stiff from moving sand bags, but not too bad. On Harvard, well, I don't know yet. But I thought the interview went well. I didn't think I had a chance, before, but now I do think I have a good one. The dean and I took to each other, and his secretary has been very nice to me."

"Joshua, love, did it really go alright? You don't sound quite right."

"I, um, I'll explain later. There was a hard part, but I got through it. I'll be home tonight, but very late. Gosh, I can't wait to be back with you. It seems like I've been away forever. Any news on your side? Are you still well?"

Heyes could hear some tension in his wife's voice, even over the crackling primitive phone line. "Yes, honey, I'm fine. Never felt better. And hearing your voice, I'm better yet. But Joshua, honey, you got a letter from Utah."

"Oh. A thick one or a thin one?"

"Thin." Beth's sympathy carried clearly over the telephone wire.

So the applicant knew the answer was likely to be negative. "Do you have it there? I know you never read my mail, but will you open it for me and tell me for sure? You know how I hate to wait for news. Especially bad news."

"Yes. I hoped you'd call, so I brought it." There was a brief pause and a slight clunk as Beth put the ear piece down and slit the envelope, then picked it back up after she had read the brief letter. "They said no. The board was too skeptical about you. They thought parents would be concerned. And monetary supporters, I'm sure. I'm sorry, honey."

"Well, I don't think either one of us would have been happy there anyhow. I think Harvard would be better. I already have friends here. Though I'd hate to have to wait until the spring to do more than bookkeeping, but at least I hope I could find more bookkeeping for a few months."

Beth spoke comfortingly, "Darling, we'll be fine until you get an academic post."

Heyes' said, "You know what I'm worrying about. You, and Marvin, and our own boy or girl. I want to be saving for all we're going to need for our family. I want to start paying off the debts. I want to start our family the right way in a good place. And we can't start on any of that until I get a job – a real job."

Beth said, "I know, Heyes. I'm concerned, too. But I know you'll find a way to support us. If we have to move to Europe so you can teach there, we can do that. Or if we need to move to Colorado for a little while so you can work at Christy's Place until next semester or next year. I might be able to teach at the new prep school at the University of Colorado in the fall, so we can get some additional money before the baby's due."

"I hope it would be only for a little while. I'd rather be with friends when you have the baby, and to get started raising our child and Marvin the right way. I doubt the state of Wyoming would let us take him to Europe. Colorado would be better, if I'm not at a school some place. Oh well, we can't solve any of it now. I can't wait to hold you, darling. Get plenty of sleep, eat well, and just generally take care of yourself."

"It's only one more day, darling."

"Seems way too long to me. Bye till then, love."

"Bye, Joshua. Don't get into any trouble on the train this time, alright?"

"I'll do my best, honey. But you know me and trains. I guess they're getting revenge - I've held up too many of them."

"Oh, Heyes. You sweet, silly man. Take care."

When Beth put the phone down she saw her dear friend Polly smiling at her. No one else was in the clinic entry way. "I'm sorry, Beth, but I got back before you were finished. I couldn't help over hearing - about the baby. I'm so happy for you!"

"That's alright, Polly. I was too careless. But, oh, I'm happy too!" The two friends hugged. "The baby is supposed to come in late February – right near Heyes' birthday. I won't be showing for a while, I hope. Just let me tell people myself, alright? When I'm ready?"

"Alright, Mommy. But Dr. Leutze already knows, doesn't he?"

"Yes, of course. But let me tell Jim, and Dr. Goldstein, and everybody else in my own time?"

"If you insist. You do love to spoil my gossip, don't you? Oh, Beth, I'm so glad for you and Heyes. You'll be wonderful parents. I know you will!"

000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000

Normally when he was riding on a train, Heyes was avidly looking out the window. He would spend hours studying every town, city and stretch of countryside along the tracks. He loved to see new places and figure out as much as he could about them. But on this trip back from Massachusetts, he was staring distractedly into space with his journal open on his lap. He couldn't quite bring himself to describe his traumatic morning in Massachusetts, though he felt he ought to record something about it. The journal was a little wrinkled, but the pages preserved by their leather cover and the briefcase were still quite usable. Thinking of his future and his family's, he felt pressure to record something.

As Heyes gathered his jumbled thoughts, an eager voice nearby said, "Mr. Smith? Mr. Smith?"

It took a moment for it to occur to the ex-outlaw that someone was addressing him by his old alias. It had been more than two months since anyone had called him Smith. He looked into the aisle next to him to see a tall, slender, dark-haired young man who looked to be under twenty. Heyes thought there was something familiar about the formally suited young man, though he couldn't think of a name. He could see that the boy was startled by the scars on his left temple and cheek, so this was someone who had known him a long time before.

"Mr. Smith?" repeated the young man, "Don't you remember me? I'm Tommy Cunningham, or I prefer Thomas these days. Remember – from the saloon where you and your partner worked for my mother in Wickenberg, Arizona?"

"Oh my goodness, little Tommy!" exclaimed Heyes, getting to his feet. "It's great to see you! I remember you real well, but you've grown up a lot. You're no little boy any longer. It's been, I guess almost eight years, hasn't it?"

"Yes, it has. My mother and sister and I couldn't have moved to Philadelphia without your help, you and Mr. Jones. And I sure wouldn't be in college without that money you got us. My mother and my step-father are at the other end of the car – would you please come and see them? I know they would be happy to see you." The boy kept his dignity, but his joy at seeing the man he had known in Wickenberg was clear.

The ex-outlaw grinned. "You don't have to ask me twice. I'd love to see your mother and meet your step-father."

Tommy stopped walking for a moment to balance against a seat back. "Is Mr. Jones with you? Is he alright?"

"He's fine, but he's in Colorado these days with his wife. They have a baby on the way. He's a sheriff and they have their own hotel and saloon."

Tommy was startled but pleased by the news. "Wow, that's great! And what are you doing here on a train in Pennsylvania?"

"I, um, it's a long story." Heyes stopped because they had gotten to where his old boss Mary Cunningham was sitting with the distinguished-looking bearded man who was clearly her new husband. Heyes was pleased to see how well and happy his old friend looked.

"Mother, look who I met on the train," said Tommy happily, "It's Mr. Smith, from Wickenberg. He says Mr. Jones is married and he and his wife are expecting a baby."

"Joshua! It's wonderful to see you!" cried Mary Cunningham gladly as she got to her feet, smiling at her former employee. She hugged him happily and Heyes gave her a peck on the cheek.

Heyes smiled a little more uncertainly, wondering how his real name and history would be received by the woman who had once employed him. "I'm glad to see you and know you're well – um – I'm afraid I don't know your married name."

"I'm Mrs. Evans now, but come on, Joshua, you can still call me Mary!" said the former saloon owner fondly.

Heyes saw that she had a few crows' feet and a hint of grey in her hair now, but otherwise the pretty young woman Heyes had known years before was little changed. She turned to her husband, "Donald, this is Joshua Smith. He's the man who, with his partner Mr. Jones, got Mr. Sloane to buy the saloon in Wickenberg so the children and I could come east. We owe him everything!"

"Goodness, we certainly do owe you a great deal, Mr. Smith," said Mary's new husband. He stood and extended a hand with enthusiasm, balancing against the motion of the train. "My wife and I would never have met without your help. I'm very glad to meet you at last. I've heard about you and your partner for so many years."

Heyes took the offered hand, but he shifted his feet uneasily and let his voice drop. He took an empty seat across the aisle to which Mr. Evans gestured him. Heyes looked uneasily at the Evans, unsure how they would react. "Thank you very much, Mr. Evans. But, I, um, my name isn't actually Smith and it's not legal for me to let you use that alias for me." Seeing the distress on Mary's face, Heyes added, "Yes, Smith was my alias and Jones was my partner's. We were wanted then, but we have amnesty now."

The Evans family all looked surprised. "Wanted? You were criminals? You? You seemed so nice!" said Mary in dismay.

Heyes spoke comfortingly, "Thanks. Yes, we were wanted. We had done a lot of stealing, but not when we met you, Mary. In fact, the job you gave us was the first regular work we had after we went straight. We were very grateful for the opportunity to make some honest money."

"What, sir, is your real name?" asked Mr. Evans, still standing and sounding protective of his wife and son.

"Heyes. Hannibal Heyes," said the owner of that name softly. "And my partner is Jedediah Curry."

Tommy's mouth dropped opened while Mary clapped her hands to her mouth in shock. "Wow! Golly!" exclaimed the young man Heyes had first known as a pudgy little boy who had wanted "Mr. Jones" to teach him fast draw. Mr. Evens seemed confused – unable to decide whether he needed to defend his family or to congratulate their celebrated savior.

Mary spoke softly, looking around the railroad car to make sure she didn't cause trouble for Heyes. "I – I'm startled Mr. Heyes. And yet, I suppose I should have known. As fast as your partner was on the draw, and as skilled as you were at cards, I should have figured out that you weren't exactly ordinary cowboys. I can hardly believe it. My family and I are part of a legend, and we never knew until now."

"Well, hardly a legend. Maybe a bunch of rumors and newspaper stories," said the former outlaw with a self-conscious grin.

Mary had to catch her breath. Finally, she said, "So Mr. Curry is a sheriff now. What are you doing yourself?"

Heyes said, "You recall how I did the books for you?"

"Yes, you were very efficient at it," said Mary. "You saved me so much money, I could hardly believe it."

Mr. Evans nodded. "Mary always told me that it seemed amazing that a common cowboy would be so expert with figures."

Heyes said, "Well, yes, I always was good at math. It didn't exactly hurt me in dishonest enterprises." To save a lot of awkward questions in so public a place, he condensed his story as much as he could, "When I got this," he gestured at the scar on his left temple, "I couldn't talk for a while, but I could read. So I studied at a clinic in New York. The tutor there taught me to write again and got me interested in going to college. I'm married to her, now. With her help, I got two degrees in math from Columbia University. I want to teach mathematics at the college level. My advisor thinks I'd be good at it."

"Congratulations, Mr. Heyes!" said Tommy. "That's amazing. We had read some about it in the papers – about your trial. But we never knew that we knew you."

"Yes, you have certainly done well," added Mary. "I just can't believe it. I mean, I believe you could do well in school, but well, you know. That it's really you – Hannibal Heyes. It's so hard to believe. Teaching college. Goodness!"

Heyes shrugged. "We'll see if it comes to anything. I've had a few interviews. Schools are having a hard time trusting me, considering my past. But I just interviewed at Harvard, so they could still say yes for the spring semester."

"Harvard!" Mr. Evans was clearly impressed. "I wish you luck, sir."

Heyes tried to sound modest. "It's only for a junior instructor's position, but it would still be a great opportunity. They're very suspicious of a former armed robber, of course."

"And no ordinary armed robber!" said Tommy, before his mother shushed him.

"How is your daughter?" asked Heyes, trying not to monopolize the attention in the conversation.

"Oh, she married last year – a banker in New York – we're going down to visit them."

"A banker. She couldn't do any better?" Heyes teased his former boss.

"I work in finance myself, Mr. Heyes," said Mr. Evans, affronted. Mary, however, got the joke and laughed.

"Oh, honey, Mr. Heyes is only joking. You know what a hard time he and his partner used to give banks."

"Yes," agreed Heyes, "Now I have nothing against you guys in finance, since you can't call the law on me any longer. In fact, I work in finance myself in a very small way. I'm doing bookkeeping these days for a little factory in New York. It's a lot like what I did for you, Mary."

"It's so hard to believe," said Mary, gazing at Heyes, "that my former bookkeeper and floor managers are really two of the most famous figures from the West."

Hannibal Heyes gave Mary a small bow of thanks.

"It makes me feel better to know that Mr. Jones is really Kid Curry," said Tommy. "I thought he was so fast with his gun – and I was right."

"You surely were," said Joshua. "He's hardly slowed at all over the years. I've seen him beat some real champions. It's a good thing – it's no secret that he's a sheriff. He's faced down some hot young gunmen already."

"I'm glad he's staying safe," said Mary Evans. "I'm sure his new wife must worry over him."

Mr. Evans asked a question he had been wondering about for a long time. "So, Mr. Heyes, what was your deal with Mr. Sloane?"

Heyes shook his head. "No, sir, a deal is a deal. I promised him silence. He came through on his end of the bargain, so I'm not talking."

There was an awkward pause until Tommy asked, "What kind of mathematics do you specialize in, Mr. Heyes? I like math myself."

"Trigonometry and other applied math, especially concerning ballistics, explosives, and almost anything to do with physics." said Heyes. "But I know my way around geometry and finance. I was feeling my way doing algebra when I was an outlaw – now I know how to teach it the right way."

"Gracious! You've come a long way from safe-cracking and double-entry bookkeeping," said Mary, sounding proud of her former employee. "You sound like you have a fine future ahead of you."

Heyes grinned. "Thank you. I hope so, for the sake of my family as much as myself. I'm doing my best to make up for all the years I wasted stealing. I've published an article that seems to be well thought of, and I've spoken at some symposia. My idea is not just to be a regular professor of math – my idea is to use math to make a difference for people's real lives. I do research mathematics outside the classroom – exploring new ideas. I want to save lives by helping to understand and control explosions and gun fire. Jed's saving lives as a sheriff – I want to do it with what I can figure out on paper and what I can get across in the classroom."

Now it was Mary glowing with pride in her former employee. "Thank goodness they gave you gentlemen amnesty!" she said.

"Your ambitions are very admirable, Mr. Heyes," said Mr. Evans. "I hope you're able to carry them out."

"I appreciate that," said Heyes, "When I was a boy, I was too poor to think seriously about college, and then my parents were killed. I never even got to start high school. So getting to teach college means a whole lot to me, now. I hope I can make a difference in the lives of poor young people like I was before I went wrong."

Heyes suddenly looked from the Evans family to someone else in the train car. "Excuse me a moment," he said, then got up and went two rows along the train's seats to confront a curly-haired, middle-aged man who had been listening in to this low-voiced conversation with undisguised curiosity. "Pardon me, sir," said Heyes, standing with his hands on his hips, "you seem to be taking an inordinate interest in our private affairs."

The stranger stood up, blinking nervously as he faced off with the infamous and very angry former outlaw. "I beg your pardon, Mr. Heyes. But it so happens that I overheard enough of what you said to interest me very much. In fact, I wanted you to know I was listening so you would come to see me. It's just possible that we could be of great use to each other."

"Oh? Are you with the press?" asked Heyes with undisguised hostility.

"No. I'm Charles White – Dean of Keuka College. We're a small, new school in Keuka Park, New York – in the middle of the state. And it just so happens, Mr. Heyes, that we are in desperate need of a professor of mathematics for the fall semester."

Heyes said skeptically, "But I haven't seen any listings from you. And it's August 11th – too late to hire for the fall semester."

The dean nodded, "I am vividly aware of the date, thank you. But we still have to find someone, and now. Soon there are going to be students to be taught mathematics and no one to teach them. There hasn't been time to get the word out very widely that we need someone because the need is so recent. Our lone professor of mathematics died of pneumonia just three days ago. I'm on my way back from his funeral."

Heyes felt a surge of excitement, but he took his hat in his hand and said politely, "I'm sorry for your loss."

The dean looked sad, but a spark of hope was in his eyes. "Professor Denker was a good man and a good teacher, but not very strong. We are sorry to lose him, but well, frankly, it could work out to your gain. Did I hear correctly that even if Harvard hires you, it wouldn't be until the spring?"

Heyes nodded, feeling his hopes rise. If he could be teaching this fall, it would make a big difference. "That's right. I have nothing but a part-time bookkeeping position in New York City until at least spring, and I can leave that at any time. My boss knows I'm doing academic interviews."

The young dean seemed equally cheered by this chance meeting. "Would you be interested in interviewing for a professorship teaching mathematics for the fall, with the understanding that you could continue in the spring or longer if Harvard fails to hire you?"

The former outlaw tried to restrain his eagerness. "Yes, I could be interested in the post, depending upon more details than I know yet. Like what it pays and what the teaching load is."

"I would be happy to answer all your questions and I have some materials with me about the school. Do you have your transcripts with you, and your curriculum vitae, and any legal documents about your amnesty?" enquired the dean.

Heyes' felt his heart beating faster. "Yes, I do have all those papers with me. Dean, I would be happy for you to see my qualifications and all about the amnesty."

The dean studied the famous former outlaw. "It will be a few hours before my train route back to Keuka parts company with your route to New York City. I know this is irregular and short notice, but if we can find an appropriate spot, would you consider interviewing with me for the position right here on the train? There's no time like the present."

Heyes nodded. "Yes, I would be very interested in that. I agree – neither one of us has time to spare. Let me get out my papers and give you time to look them over."

The dean grinned like a boy, displaying an array of fine white teeth. "Excellent! I'll tell you this – we at Keuka believe in giving young people a chance for an education even when they come from poor or unusual backgrounds – like your own." He was digging for something in his briefcase.

Heyes smiled back. "Good – that's very important to me. While you read about me, I'll speak to the conductor and see if we could get a while to ourselves in the caboose."

"Thank you, Mr. Heyes. Here's a brochure about Keuka. I'll speak with you in, shall we say an hour? I hope they'll let us use the caboose – this train is pretty crowded, and I wouldn't want to violate your privacy. I do apologize for listening in to your fascinating reunion with your former employer and her family."

"Just this once, Dean, I'm glad to have been overheard. I'll get you my papers and then see you in an hour." Heyes headed rapidly down the aisle to get his briefcase, keeping his balance easily as the train lurched a little going around a curve.

Historical notes – Keuka is a real college that was founded in 1890 in rural New York State. They really did have a brochure printed about them in 1891. And they did particularly strive to give academic opportunity to students from poor backgrounds. The character of Dean White is invented. New York telephone numbers in 1891 did consist of 2 digits. Lettered exchanges didn't start being used until decades later.