A vibrant orange filled the late afternoon sky, the colour deepening as the sun slowly sank behind the Rocky Mountains. Now dressed in freshly laundered clothes, Jedediah Curry stood transfixed at the spectacular sight. He had witnessed beautiful sunsets before, mostly over the fields of Kansas where the glow from the waning sun appeared to set the wheat ablaze, but he had never seen one which could turn mountains blue and purple.

A great believer in idle hands doing the devil's work, after an early supper Maisie had given the boys some chores to do and seeing how stiffly Jed was moving Maisie had sent him out to the front porch, broom in hand, to sweep up the pieces of straw dropped from their clothes earlier. Han and Billy had been deemed fit enough to chop firewood in the back yard.

As far as Jed could see, the porch was already about as clean as you could get it, so his efforts were half-hearted at best. So engrossed was he watching the sky's changing hues that he didn't notice a man wearing a smart dark suit with a matching John Bull style top hat open the gate and approach the house.

"Hey! Hey you! Whaddya think you're doing?" the man yelled, waving his horn-topped cane aggressively.

At the sound of the high-pitched, raspy voice Jed jumped. "J-just sweepin'."

"I ain't paying ya; ya cheeky young feller! Not one red cent! Now take that broom and get!"

"But..."

The man waved his cane again. "I said, get!"

Unsettled, Jed took a step back. "Han," he called through the partially open door.

"I ain't foolin'," the man's face was turning pink, his demeanour increasingly threatening.

"Haaan!"

The urgency in Jed's tone made Hannibal Heyes drop the bucket of wood he had been carrying to the study, and make his way quickly up the hallway. A pair of bushy eyebrows almost leapt off the man's forehead as the front door opened wider to reveal yet another unfamiliar face.

"And you!" He jabbed a finger in Hannibal's direction. "What are you doing in my house? I've a mind to get the law down here and—"

Before Han had a chance to explain, Maisie appeared alongside him. "Why Mister O'Sullivan," she said, calmly. "I didn't expect you home so early today."

"So I see. What the devil's going on here?"

"Let Mister O'Sullivan through," instructed Maisie, shooing the boys up the hallway with a murmured, "Get Billy and go upstairs. Don't come down 'til I call you."

"You must have had a busy day," she cooed, turning back to the scowling, red-faced man. "Why don't you put your feet up and I'll fetch you a nice cup of tea."

The man's pale blue-grey eyes narrowed. Maisie Conlon had been his housekeeper for more years than he cared to remember; he also considered her a friend, which was the only reason he allowed himself to be steered into his study.

While her rattled employer settled huffily in his favourite armchair Maisie struck a match and applied it to the newly laid fire. Satisfied that it would soon be burning brightly she thrust a neatly folded copy of this week's Rocky Mountain News into his hands and made a quick exit to the kitchen.

Sylvester James O'Sullivan — Silky to his friends — shook out the newspaper's folds and attempted to scrutinise the front page, but he was unable to concentrate. It had never occurred to him that he would need to have a word with his housekeeper about letting strangers into the house. He certainly hoped she wasn't expecting him to pay those two young whippersnappers for whatever chores she had given them to do.

Born in Boston, Massachusetts, almost fifty years ago, Silky had three older brothers and three younger sisters. His father worked mainly on the docks, but was not above taking whatever work might be on offer each day in order to support his family. His mother took in sewing; hemming linen handkerchiefs and occasionally stitching a quality shirt or a pair of ladies pantaloons. While his sisters stayed at home helping their mother, the boys received a rudimentary education, but as soon as they were old enough they were expected to help supplement the family income.

All the O'Sullivan boys were street-wise and more than a little artful, and between them they devised a small money-making scheme. Using a number of recruits spread across the city, they operated a relay system, transporting messages or small parcels anywhere for a suitable fee. This made them good money in their spare time, but as they grew, one by one they left to find a proper job, eventually resulting in all three older brothers following their father into labouring. Silky, on the other hand, turned to the newspaper business — the distribution side. He became a newsboy, or newsie as they were commonly known.

Unlike his brothers, until the age of fifteen he remained small and skinny, which meant he could easily pray on people's sympathies. In order to make a sale he would stand near a street corner pathetically waving a single newspaper in the air telling anyone who would listen that this was his very last one, but that even though he was hungry and exhausted, until he had sold it he would not be allowed to go home or worse still, get paid. Then, having made a sale, all he had to do was wait until the successfully duped customer had disappeared around the corner, pull out another paper from a hidden stash, and do the same thing again. Most of his bundle of newspapers was sold in this way and was his first foray into the seemingly limitless world of cons. It was also why, as an adult, he didn't trust young boys.

Silky was considering heading out to the kitchen to make sure that half the household silver hadn't ended up in the boys' pockets when Maisie returned carrying a full tray.

"This is what you need, a nice cup of tea," she said cheerily, placing the tray on a small table.

"You gonna to tell me what's going on now?"

"Shall I pour?"

Silky sighed irritably. "Yes, yes. Now stop stallin'."

Maisie Conlon smiled. She knew a lot of people found her irascible employer difficult to get along with, but his grumbling and sniping never bothered her. Pouring a perfectly brewed cup of tea, she added cream and sugar just how he liked it and handed him the cup.

"So?" he asked, pointedly.

"Why didn't you let me know what was in that telegraph?" asked Maisie, making herself comfortable in a chair on the opposite side of the fireplace.

"What telegraph?"

"The one from JT, last week."

"Oh, that telegraph," he said, recalling the young post office clerk disturbing his peaceful evening. "He said he had some prospects." Silky took a sip of tea then looked up in astonishment. "Surely he didn't mean those two!"

"Hannibal said you were expecting them."

"Hannibal?"

"Yes, the older one's name is Hannibal. Hannibal Heyes. Nice, polite young fellow. Seems level-headed enough. Got a look in his eyes older than his years. The one you were yelling at is Jedediah Curry. He and Billy are—"

"There's more?" exclaimed Silky, sitting upright so fast he almost spilled the contents of his cup.

"Oh, don't take on. Only one more. Billy, um..." Maisie realised nobody had mentioned his last name and the child had barely said a word since they arrived. "He's pretty quiet."

"Hmmphh."

"There's something I think you should know, though."

"Oh Lord, what now?"

"The younger ones are covered in bruises. I asked about them and Jed swears it wasn't Hannibal, but they haven't said how they got them. I suspect they're not inclined to trust people."

Silky sighed. "Is there any supper, or have those young chowhounds eaten it all?"

Maisie smiled. "Oh there's plenty and you know it. Shall I set a place in the dining room, or would you rather eat in the kitchen?"

"The kitchen. It'll probably give me indigestion, but I can hear what this Hannibal has to say for himself while I eat."

ooooo-OOO-ooooo

"And that's the truth of it, Mister O'Sullivan." Hannibal Heyes' eyes blinked earnestly as he finished recounting the whole sorry tale of Jed's abduction, the search for him, and the subsequent rescue.

"This Flanagan fellow, did he beat your cousin like that all the time?" asked Silky.

"No sir, only because he lost that particular bout. You see, the fight was fixed and it cost him money. Jed said he didn't need an excuse to beat on Billy though. That's why we brung him with us."

Silky nodded solemnly. "I see. Well, I can't guarantee those two won't come to any harm here in the city, but it certainly won't be by my hand."

"Thank you, sir."

Silky pushed his plate to one side. "So, what did that old rogue JT tell you about me?"

"Nothing; only that you'd have some work for us."

A seed of an idea began to grow in Silky's mind. "Hmmm... your cousin and his friend, how old are they?"

"Jed's almost fourteen, sir. I think Billy's a year or so younger," answered Han.

"Do they know their letters and numbers?"

"Jed does," Han assured him. "He's whip-smart. He's missed a little schooling from time to time, but I can make sure he reads regular from now on. Billy too, if that's what you want."

"And you? What's your particular talent?" Silky regarded the likeable youngster standing in front of him with increasing curiosity.

Han's brain was working overtime trying to figure out the type of skills this man might be looking for. In the end he decided to be straight with him.

"Back in Serenity I worked for Mister Todd in his general store. I used to count the money at the end of the day; he'd even trust me to take it to the bank. I've a pretty good head for figures."

"Is that what you were doing for JT, counting his money?"

Han hesitated. Josiah Tweedie had enriched his education in a somewhat unorthodox fashion, and although he had been told Silky was a friend, he was still unsure exactly what to admit to.

He shifted a little awkwardly from foot to foot. "I, um..."

"Come along young feller," Silky urged. "It's not as if I don't know what line of work that rascal is in."

Still uncomfortable about admitting any unlawful activity, Han replied, "JT and Bella said I had good hands."

"In other words, they taught you to pick pockets."

"Yes, sir."

"Don't have any use for a dipper."

Unsure of exactly what he needed to say in order to prevent Silky from turning them away, Han said the first thing that came into his head. "He taught me about poker too."

This piece of information piqued Silky's interest. "Poker, huh? How to play, or how to cheat?"

"Both, but I don't need to cheat to win," Han stated with conviction.

Silky stood and walked over to the dresser where he opened a drawer and took out a deck of cards.

"Shuffle 'em," he ordered placing them on the table.

Han duly shuffled the pack.

Indifferently, Silky asked, "Is that all you can do?"

Eager now to make an impression Han helped himself to a seat and demonstrated some more complex moves finishing with a one-handed spin cut.

"Hmmm, JT was right, you do have good hands. I suppose we could start with blackjack and see how it goes."

"Blackjack, sir?"

Seeing Hannibal's slightly perplexed frown Silky clarified, "As a dealer, I mean. I own a saloon and gambling hall."

Unable to believe his luck, Han enthused, "Thank you, sir. I do like playing cards." Then he asked hesitantly, "But...but what about Jed and Billy?"

"Bring 'em to my study and I'll look 'em over," said Silky.

Han smiled, hopeful now that they might all be gainfully employed.

"Well don't just stand there, go get 'em!"

Hannibal Heyes raced up the stairs to their bedroom on the second floor. Upon opening the door he saw Jed and Billy kneeling at the window, their elbows on the sill, watching the lamplighter carry his ladder from lamp to lamp on the street below.

"Mister O'Sullivan wants to see you both," he announced, breathlessly.

"Why?" asked Jed suspiciously.

"To figure out what kinda work you can do, of course. Hurry now. Last thing we wanna do is give him time to come to his senses and throw us out."

"Would he do that?" asked Billy.

Han shrugged. "Can't say for sure, so you'd best not keep him waiting."

Hearing the study door open behind him Silky continued to pour himself a generous measure of brandy from a cut-glass decanter. Picking up the brandy glass and holding a freshly-lit cigar in his mouth he settled into his armchair by the fire.

"Here they are, Mister O'Sullivan."

Removing the cigar from his mouth Silky took a sip of the expensive liquor. He pointed to the boy he had seen on the porch. "You Jedediah?"

Now that the man wasn't threatening him with his cane young Jed tilted his chin in the air. "My name's Kid. Kid Curry."

Han ground his teeth then explained with a conciliatory smile, "Kid was my cousin's fighting name, sir."

Silky puffed thoughtfully on his cigar and regarded the angelic-looking boy in front of him. He was having a hard time picturing him in a boxing ring. "So, Kid, tell me... what are you good at?"

"I can fight and I run real fast. I shoot good too."

Too late Han recalled what Maisie had said about Silky's aversion to guns, and in the hope of preventing his cousin from elaborating on this any further he pinched the back of his arm, hard.

"OW!" Jed exclaimed turning to glare at his cousin.

"Your turn," Han said quickly, prodding Billy between the shoulder blades.

"I'm Billy Black, sir," he said, quietly. "I ain't good at nuthin' much."

"You orphans, or just plain runaways?" Silky enquired bluntly.

Han frowned. "Why do you wanna know?" he challenged.

"Because I need to know what kind of people are gonna be working for me. I don't want to be arrested for harbouring fugitives. It'd be bad for business."

Relieved that while relating the tale of their time in Serenity he had chosen not to mention their short stay in jail for stealing from Mister Dodd's general store, Han realised that both terms did actually apply to them. Placing a hand on Jed's shoulder he opted for the least incriminating. "Me and Jed are orphans. We lost our folks in the Border Wars."

"How about you, Billy?" asked Silky.

"I'm neither."

"How's that?"

The boy shifted nervously from foot to foot under Silky's penetrating stare.

"Billy's real shy, mister. He don't tell people about himself," explained Jed hoping to save his friend from recounting any bad memories.

"Well, he's gonna have to tell me."

Billy cast an anxious glance at the three expectant faces now staring at him. Half expecting the boy to bolt out of the door at any minute Silky made an effort to soften his tone. "C'mon son, tell me your story and maybe I can help you. Where you come from would be a good start."

Billy took a deep breath. "Fredericktown, Missouri, sir."

"And how old are you?"

"Twelve, or thirteen."

Many of the street kids Silky had known as a boy didn't know their precise age. He nodded, sympathetically, "Go on."

"My Ma died... winter fever, the doc said. Pa worked the lead mine outside o' town, but then he took sick too. The headaches made him pretty ornery — well, more ornery than usual. After the bellyaches started he took to the drink."

"Did you go to school?"

"No, sir. I had to work so we could eat; that was if I wasn't watchin' Lucy. She was my baby sister."

"What happened to her, Billy?" Jed almost whispered the question, having struggled with the memory of digging his own sister's grave following the barbarous raid on his family's farm.

Billy's eyes shone with unshed tears. "A travellin' preacher took her away to an orphanage, Pa said."

Not wishing to dwell on whatever fate may have befallen the little girl Silky prompted, "And after that you ran away?"

"No, sir. Pa traded me."

Already knowing what the answer would be, Han still had to ask. "He sold you to Flanagan, didn't he?"

Billy nodded.