A HARRIED JOURNEY
Dana De Vos
Dedicated to the memory of J. D. Cannon
Peace be with you, sir, and say howdy to Pete for us.
Even if you didn’t rob them any more, Kid Curry reflected, trains were worthwhile. Cinders, potential derailings, and the latest crop of outlaws notwithstanding, it still beat days in the saddle and sleeping on the ground. True, the hard seats that became berths didn’t make for good sleeping; Mr. Pullman should put his palace cars on more trains out west. But that wasn’t what was keeping him awake now.
“Heyes? You asleep?” Despite his anxiety, Kid had to smile at the switch in the pattern. Usually it was his partner keeping him from slumber in the pre-dawn hours. Kinda felt good to be on the other side for once. “Heyes?”
The sudden shake did it – Heyes came out of his slumber in fight mode, then rolled back against the wall of the train. “What is it, Kid?”
“You carrying a copy of our amnesty papers?”
Even with only the glow from the coal stove, even with only
one eye open, Heyes’ glance was withering.
“Kid. You saw me put it in my
wallet; the wallet’s right here in my coat.
You have your copy. The governor
has his copy in the territorial records.
Hell, Lom has a copy in
Kid frowned, shrugged, sighed. He was edgy but couldn’t come up with the words to explain it. Articulation was supposed to be Heyes’ department, after all. “I don’t know. I feel like there’s trouble around. Guess I haven’t got used to being free and clear yet. Thought I would in almost three months’ time, but I’m not.”
Heyes scrunched himself into a slightly less uncomfortable
position in his berth, which was too hard, too straight, too unyielding. Why couldn’t all trains have palace cars, now
that they could afford to travel on them?
“Well, that’s not so long. We
were wanted for a long time, remember?
If anybody stops us, we’ve got ample proof that we’re amnestied. Get some sleep. We’ll be in
The blond ex-outlaw grunted an assent from across the aisle and sought a position he could sleep in. Eventually he at least dozed. Neither partner completely woke up during the early morning stop in Federal, which is why they didn’t see the slim, dark man who spotted them and ducked back out of the car.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Just after sunup, Heyes opened his eyes to the business end of a .45. When he saw who was holding it on him he sat up and tried the famous grin and the glib heartiness. “Harry Briscoe, you old dog! Is this any way to greet old friends? Kid? Kid, wake up and see who’s come calling.”
Kid was awake, reflexively reaching for his weapon. Briscoe held out his left hand. “Go ahead and draw it, Curry. Just put it here. You, too, Heyes. We don’t need to have any trouble about this.” Curry’s didn’t-I-tell-you look at Heyes was eloquent.
They complied but Heyes informed him, “You’re too late, Harry. We’re not wanted any more.” He gave Briscoe a brief moment to snort in disbelief. “It’s true. We finally got our amnesty last July. Independence Day, to be exact. You can check the records; hell, you can telegraph Jim Stevenson himself. He’ll tell you.”
Briscoe’s hand hadn’t wavered, and his nasal twang expressed his disbelief quite emphatically. “So I’m supposed to believe you’re on first name terms with the governor, huh? Well, I’ll say this: that’s a creative lie, anyway.” A man and woman entered the car, stopping short at the scene, their cheerful chatter stilled. “Will you folks go get the conductor, please?” Briscoe’s hand still didn’t waver, and his eyes never left his quarry. “These two are the notorious Hannibal Heyes and Kid Curry, and I’m not letting them get away again.”
“Harry,” Heyes tried again as the man and woman took off, “you’re just letting yourself in for some terrible embarrassment.”
“Embarrassment? Oh, I’ve been embarrassed by you before, Heyes, downright humiliated a time or two. I’m not forgetting you’ve done me some good, too, but I just can’t let you go this time.” There was a hint of desperation in his voice, and Curry thought he knew why.
“What’s the matter, Harry? Your job in jeopardy again? Did you mess up something really important this time? ’Cause if you did, you’re doing it once more. Heyes is telling you the truth.”
The conductor arrived, full of excited officiousness, leaving the fascinated couple gazing from the entrance. Briscoe explained his situation and had the conductor hold the pistol while he arranged things. Once they were dressed, he handcuffed Heyes and Curry to each other and, shifting them to a seat already set up, cuffed their other hands to the rail at the top of the seat back. “Look, Harry,” Heyes plied the silver tongue, making a monumental effort to control his temper, “inside my coat on the left side, there’s a wallet. Look at the legal paper in there; it’s proof we’re not wanted any longer, signed by Governor Stevenson himself.”
Briscoe ignored him, turning to the conductor to demand a
couple of men to help guard the prisoners.
He abruptly dismissed the conductor’s suggestion that he might ought to
at least look at the papers, assuring the official that it was just “another
Hannibal Heyes trick, and I’ve seen enough of those to last me a
lifetime.” It was just like the
Brimstone trip, Kid thought. Briscoe
didn’t want to hear the truth then, either.
Instead, he confirmed the scheduled stops –
“Damn it, Harry – excuse me, ma’am.” Even in their current situation, Curry
noticed the couple were still watching, and his mother had taught him well. “Look, Harry, we have a job waiting for us in
“Kidnapping.” Heyes tamped down the part of his brain that automatically made a pun out of the word, too angry for trivialities now. “That’s the charge, Harry, and it’s not a short term, either.” Even that didn’t reach Briscoe as he arranged guards’ shifts with the conductor and shooed away the civilian couple. They didn’t resist, but the man’s eyes met Curry’s once more before they left for another car, deep in a whispered conversation.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Perhaps three quarters of an hour passed, silent except for the occasional jangle of handcuffs and Heyes banging his head against the back of the seat for a while. His cousin took this to mean he didn’t know how to get out of their predicament, either, but was working on it. So Kid waited, frustrated, watchful, and getting hungry.
“Say, Harry, what about breakfast?” he finally asked.
“Had mine, before I got on the train.”
“Yeah, well, that’s real nice for you, Harry. Heyes and me haven’t had breakfast. Do you intend to keep us chained up here until tomorrow evening without a chance to eat or anything?”
Heyes concurred. “You really need to keep him fed, Harry, you know how grouchy he gets when he don’t eat regular. It’ll be a long, unpleasant trip if you keep him hungry. And, to tell you the truth, I could use a trip to the facilities myself.”
Conceding the justice of this, Briscoe turned to his assistant guard, a lanky youth still grimy from the coal car where his normal job was. They arranged the logistics of Briscoe escorting one man and the boy guarding the still-cuffed prisoner, of getting some coffee and doughnuts brought in, and of taking off the handcuffs that joined the two men so they had one hand to eat with. By the time it was all done, some of the tension had eased. Seamus began to think prisoner-guarding had it all over shoveling coal, especially when Heyes got some conversation going.
“So, Harry, tell us what you’ve been doing lately. Chasing nuns? Planning a Mexican vacation? Surely you have some interesting tales to tell.”
Briscoe frowned. Did he know something? “Why don’t you two go first – fill me in on what you’ve been doing instead.” He had lit a cigar, the smoke curling up and hanging in the air like unanswered questions.
Around a mouthful of doughnut, Curry asked, “You mean besides the fact we got our amnesty? Our other big news is Heyes is getting married next month.”
“Why you no-good son of a – does she know who you really are?” Moral outrage just didn’t ring true coming from Harry Briscoe, but he tried it on.
Curry looked at his partner, finding the exact grin he expected to see on Heyes’ face. Kid could always tell when he was thinking about Maggie. Heyes softly answered the question, “Yes, Harry, she knows. She knew from the day we showed up at her place, me sick as a dog.”
“Awww, she nursed you back to health and you fell in love. How romant—OW! Damn you, Heyes!” Harry’s sarcasm had cost him the second half of Heyes’ coffee in his eyes, plus an exquisitely painful kick to his right kneecap. Curry, whose right hand was free, did not miss the chance to grab at the pistol when Harry dropped it, but the gangly fireman was not as slow-witted as he looked. He’d jumped right in when Heyes flung the coffee, and reached the weapon first. He sort of saluted Curry with the gun, and Curry sat back on the seat again with a shrug. A man had to try. He stamped out Harry’s cigar; this was no time and place to start a fire.
Heyes had leapt after Briscoe into the aisle, as far as his handcuffed right hand would allow, and the two were still in a fiercely loud swearing match. After a moment, the young guard moved between them, his impassive calm eventually silencing the two furious men. Curry was impressed; he’d initially written off the youngster as muscle but no brains. Briscoe dried his face once more and took the weapon so the younger man could replace the handcuffs. Heyes slumped back in the seat and his breathing slowed, but his face was still darkly angry. Briscoe took care to stay out of reach, across the aisle, as he warned his prisoner about “any more tricks.”
Curry tried to forestall Heyes’ response. “Harry, you should know better than to make fun of a man’s fiancée, ’specially when you don’t even know her. Even young…say, what’s your name, son?” he asked of the young guard.
“Seamus, Mr. Curry. Seamus Dunne. And I’d like to hear about the engagement, if Mr. Heyes doesn’t mind.” Tall and lean, with the muscles that went with hard labor, the sandy-haired young man had an open honest face and respect in his voice. But Kid doubted that would make him an accomplice in any escape plans.
The two partners exchanged a long look. It appeared they were having a telepathic conversation, so well did they know each other’s thoughts. Heyes finally growled, “Do what you want,” which told Kid he was free to relate the story. He would have to; Heyes didn’t really remember that first day or two.
The two men rode in on one horse, the blond
supporting his dark-haired partner and leading the second mount. Rumpled and trail-dusty, even the stronger
man looked done in. A massive black dog
barked vigorously as they approached the large, well-maintained house. “Mrs. Stevenson?” the man inquired of the very young woman who
had been sweeping the wide, inviting porch and crooning to a baby in a heavy
basket.
“No, but she saw you riding in. Oso, hush,” she addressed the dog. He quieted down but took a position between
the woman and the strangers.
Broad-chested, with a large, square-ish head, the animal made it clear
he was protecting his own. The young
woman straightened a lock of wheat-blonde hair and asked, “Is your friend there
a patient? Then it would be easier to
meet Mrs. Stevenson at the side door.
That’s where the sick rooms are, and she’ll be there.” Curry had turned his horse before his “Much
obliged” was audible, seeking the woman recommended as “better than most
sawboneses.” Oso followed silently,
keeping a respectful distance from the horses’ hooves.
Maggie Stevenson turned out to be noticeably older
than the sweeper, in her mid-twenties probably; perhaps it had been her baby in
the basket on the porch.
Chestnut-haired, green-eyed, she was dressed almost Quaker-plain. She was also brisk and businesslike, and
stronger than she looked as she helped support Heyes up the few steps and into
the house. By the time they settled Heyes
in a large swivel chair in the designated sickroom and Maggie began scrubbing
her hands, introductions had been made, Curry had explained that one of her
neighbors had sent them to her, and Heyes had already asserted that he had
“just a real bad cold.”
“Well, perhaps you’re right.” Heyes gave his partner an I-told-you-so look,
which Curry rejected with a shake of his head.
Maggie pulled a stool up close and continued, “I’ll just check on a few
things. Has Mr. Jones been with you
since you got sick?” At Heyes’ nod, she
suggested, “Then why don’t we let him do the talking and we’ll spare your
throat that way.” Heyes’ smile was weak
but grateful, and Maggie reinforced the deal by putting a thermometer under his
tongue. She felt the glands under his jaw,
smiling an apology when Heyes winced.
After listening to him breathe through a stethoscope (wasn’t that for
hearts? Curry thought), she peered up
his nose and into his ears, removed and checked the thermometer, looked down
his throat. Then she was ready to
listen. “Tell me the story of this
illness. Did it come on slowly, over a
day or two, or hit suddenly?”
“Suddenly,” Kid answered. “We’d been in
“Just a bad…cold,” wheezed Heyes. He’d said it a dozen times or more over the
last day and night, hoping to convince his cousin to stop worrying. It hadn’t worked on either of them.
“Tell me about the aching,” Maggie directed
him. “That hit you suddenly, too? Feels like the very marrow of your bones
aches?” He nodded at the apt
description. Turning back to Curry,
Maggie pressed, “How was his health before this? Any history of weakness in the lungs? Heart?”
“No, he’s the healthiest person I’ve ever
met.” Curry looked over for his cousin’s
nod. It was something Heyes was
inordinately proud of, actually. He took
sickness as a personal insult, like he wasn’t in control somehow.
Maggie smiled, something she apparently did
often. “That’s all to the good.” She turned back to Heyes, took his hand in
both of hers, fastening her green eyes onto his deep brown ones. “Mr. Smith, you do have influenza. But you’re in no danger.”
Curry interrupted, “Folks can die of ’flu,
though.” That had been what everyone
talked about in town, how many folks had died over the winter. Unspoken, the fear of it had weighed heavily
on him and his partner.
“Not the ones who are young and healthy to start
with,” Maggie countered, still holding Heyes’ gaze. “And, not the ones who get good nursing care
and avoid getting pneumonia. You have
all the right answers to those criteria, Mr. Smith. There’s no sign of pneumonia in your lungs,
and it’s not bragging for me to say you won’t find better care anywhere
else.”
Curry felt relieved enough to grin. “That’s what Mr. Rasmussen said.” They had met him on the road, and Curry had
asked directions to the nearest town and doctor. The profane old man had answered both
requests but recommended they turn off and come to the Stevenson place,
assuring them they couldn’t find a better place to heal up.
“Did he also tell you I’m ‘mean on clean’? That’s what he usually tells folks.”
“Well, something like that, maybe.” Probably best not to quote the remark about
how the “hellacious fussy female, she’d clean the damned air you breathe if she
could.” Curry had liked Maggie’s ornery
old neighbor.
With a chuckle, Maggie turned back to her
patient. “Are you wondering what we can
do from here? I have three plans in mind
for you, Mr. Smith: complete bed rest
with good food, some medicines I have for the coughing, and for the aches and
fever, plus all the liquids you can swallow.
We need to fight that fever. Watch this.”
Raising the hand she still held, she pinched up the skin on the back of
his hand. “Now watch on mine.” When she demonstrated on her own hand, the
skin fell back instantly. It had taken
longer for Heyes. She answered his
questioning gaze, “The fever is drying you out.
Your temperature is almost 101 degrees when it should be about 98 and a
half. That’s more miserable than
dangerous, but obviously we want to fight it.”
Both men nodded, comforted to have a plan at
least. Heyes managed to rasp out, “How
long?”
“It’s hard to say precisely. Most likely you will feel perfectly dreadful
for another two-three days and then begin to get better. I can promise you this, though: it will take much longer than you think is
reasonable before you really feel like yourself again.”
Damn, Curry thought. “You don’t mince words, do you, Mrs.
Stevenson?”
Another smile acknowledged the truth of it. “It’s been said of me. My father, who was a doctor, always taught me
that lying does the patient no good.
It’s been my experience as a nurse, too.”
Catching his cousin’s expression, Kid knew he was
wondering the same thing. “Is this a
hospital, then?” There were two narrow
beds in one end of the spacious room, and two solid cabinet-looking things plus
a couple of cots in the opposite end.
Besides the desk and chair where Maggie examined patients, there two
immense wardrobes, and no less than three washstands. The small pot-bellied heating stove was
glossily blacked, and there was not a speck of dust in sight. Mean on clean, indeed.
“Only occasionally.
It’s my home, but sometimes there are patients here. There’s another sickroom just like this one
on the opposite side of the kitchen. Amy
Ruth, whom you met outside, was a childbirth case, but she lives here with me
now. You’ll be my only patient now, Mr.
Smith.” As she spoke, Maggie turned down
the covers on the bed nearer to the door.
“Mr. Jones, you’ll be staying with Mr. Smith? Ordinarily, I’d advise you to isolate
yourself, but the damage is already done so far as your being exposed to the
illness. If you don’t have symptoms yet,
you’re probably going to escape it.”
“I’ll stay here.”
The glance between the two men made it clear separation would not have
been acceptable anyway. Sick or well,
they’d watched each other’s backs too long to do any different.
Amy Ruth tapped at the door frame. “Maggie, the hot water’s ready.” Maggie took the kettle from her, setting it
on the nearest washstand and shooing the young mother away from the sick
room. “We’re taking no chances on you
and the baby catching anything.”
With an authoritative no-nonsense air, Maggie
turned back to the two men. She often
met resistance to the message she had now, and these men didn’t seem exactly
the obedient, pushover type. “Part of
any treatment here is to stay as clean as possible, so I will give you some
privacy for Mr. Smith to wash up as best he can. You’ll need to put on something clean to wear
to bed—“ she forestalled the question before Curry could ask it—“if you don’t
have clean things with you, use anything from the wardrobes. There’s no need to shave, but cleanliness is
essential for healing.”
“Is that really necessary? He feels so bad…”
“You can help him, Mr. Jones, or I can.” Her gaze went from Curry to Heyes. The smile that had lit up her face previously
was nowhere in evidence now. “And it’s
not nearly as much fun as it sounds like.”
Convinced, or maybe just in no shape to argue, Heyes started unbuttoning
his shirt, and Maggie left to collect medicines, closing the door firmly behind
her.
Despite his objections to the near-bath, Curry was
immensely cheered to have turned over the doctoring responsibilities to someone
who seemed so capable. He felt good enough
to throw Heyes a nightshirt from the wardrobe, knowing how he loathed
them. The weary patient was too puny to
throw it all the way back in his face, and Kid laughed as he picked it up and
tossed his cousin the henley shirt and drawers he had in mind anyway. Bedded down eventually, Heyes stretched,
sighed, smiled. The sheets were smooth
and cool, and smelled cleanly of sunlight and… something…lilac, maybe? “Nicer place to be sick than you had,” he
murmured, remembering Curry’s illness at the gold camp.
“Prettier nurse, too.” As usual, the two were thinking along the
same lines. “But you did good, Heyes,
best that could be.” Curry kept his
other thought to himself, wondering what such good care was going to cost in
the end. Maggie hadn’t mentioned
it. But no need to put that in Heyes’
mind if it wasn’t there already.
Maggie’s knock interrupted the talk, and Curry opened the door. She held a tray with two pitchers, a heavy
glass tumbler, a shot glass, and two dark-brown bottles, which she set on the
small table between the beds. She washed
her hands again before settling in the small chair next to Heyes’ bed. “Comfortable?”
Heyes nodded and showed her his hands. “Clean enough?” He turned his head, pulling his ear forward
so she could check behind it. Maggie
laughed, a silvery merry sound that suddenly touched something deep within
him. He was startled at the unexpected
tug on his heartstrings.
“Oh, Mr. Smith, we are going to have some times, I
think.” The smile was back, and Heyes
was downright enchanted. Or maybe it was
partly the fever. “Let me tell you about
the medicines. The tall bottle is willow
bark tea, rather concentrated so it tastes unbelievably horrid, but it will
help with the aching and the fever.
You’ll want to drink a shot glass full, every three or four hours. If you develop a cough – probably about
tomorrow – the shorter bottle has a tonic for that, a half a shot at a
time. That one has honey and lemon in
it; it tastes a little better.” She had
filled the shot glass from the tall bottle as she spoke, handing it to
Heyes. He stared doubtfully at the
darkly thick liquid. Maggie reached now
for the larger glass. “The pewter
pitcher has water, the china one sweet cider.
What’s your pleasure?”
“No beer?”
The question drew a chiding growl from Curry but an
indulgent grin from the nurse. “You
think you’re being smart, sir, but I keep a small barrel of beer in the
cellar.” She then dashed his hopes. “Unfortunately, the alcohol dries out the
body almost as bad as your fever. So not
yet. How’s this? As soon as you go twenty-four hours without
any fever, I’ll personally bring you up a pitcher.” They shook hands on the bargain. “Of course,” Maggie off-handedly mentioned,
“it will take several miserable days longer if you decide to tough it out
without taking your medicines or drinking enough liquids. Did you decide on a drink?” She held his gaze, not pressuring him to take
the noxious potion, but waiting for him to decide. He settled on the cider and was glad to have
a large chaser for the shot of medicine.
She had not exaggerated about the taste.
Sitting on the other bed to watch his partner,
Curry grinned at Heyes’ puckered face.
Maybe he’d been better off in the gold camp cabin after all. But no, he decided, watching Maggie hold
Heyes’ hand and softly talk him into sleep.
When she was sure he was asleep, she laid his hand down and got up. Curry followed her out to the kitchen. He needed to see to the horses, and he felt
obliged to talk about money.
When they reached the kitchen, though, he was
distracted by delicious cooking aromas.
Breakfast had been sketchy and some time back, as the scent clearly
reminded him. Amy Ruth was stirring stew
and dropping in dumplings. “Sure smells
good, ma’am,” Curry told her. The
enormous dog, Oso, looked up at Kid intently.
He had laid down by the baby’s cradle, at one end of a long table.
Amy Ruth smiled shyly, quickly returning her gaze
to the stew pot. “It’ll be a while yet,
three quarters of an hour, probably.”
Then, because she had brothers, she added, “There’s doughnuts in the pie
safe there, if you need something to tide you over.”
Who were these women, Curry wondered. An angel of mercy to heal up Heyes, a
generous good cook, and both pretty and sweet-tempered to boot, so far as he
could tell yet. Enough to make a man
regret traveling. “Thank you,
ma’am. I’ll take you up on that in a
minute. But, Mrs. Stevenson, I need to
ask you what Joshua’s nursing is going to cost.”
Maggie was pouring coffee and handed him a cup,
nodding for him to sit at the table.
Refusing the offer, Amy Ruth was searching the pantry for
something. Curry sat, waiting for
Maggie’s response and appreciating good coffee.
As she joined him, Maggie declared, “I’ve been wondering if you’d be
interested in an exchange of labors, Mr. Jones.
Amy Ruth and I are in need of a hand here. The young man who’s been with me the past
couple of years took a nice office job with his about-to-be father-in-law. It’s plain, ordinary farm work – looking
after the stock, milking cows, helping me in the garden. I don’t raise a cash crop, but I keep a very
large kitchen garden, and it entails a lot of work in the spring. Does that sound practical to you?”
“It sounds too good to be true,” responded Curry,
shaking her hand before she changed her mind.
“It’s been a long while, but I think I can remember which end of the cow
to milk.” He set his empty cup on the
work table by the stove. “I’d best be
seeing to the horses now.” Not
forgetting to pick up a couple of doughnuts, he saluted Amy Ruth with them as a
thank-you on his way out. Things were
definitely looking up.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
“Did she bring the beer, after all?” Seamus wanted to know. Both prisoners nodded, Heyes keeping his face down, though, as he remembered. “Pretty nice,” Seamus admired, “So you stayed on, then?” Within himself, he wondered And why did you ever leave such a setup? He still held Briscoe’s pistol steadily, but he found himself liking his prisoners more and more. Briscoe himself was still across the aisle, nursing his knee. He had to argue, “I thought you said she recognized you.”
Curry looked at his partner, expecting an outburst at anything Briscoe could say, but Heyes was ignoring their captor. Instead, he answered Kid’s gaze and they both grinned, remembering the remarkable conversation around the supper table that night. Kid, though, didn’t know everything about the afternoon before that. Curry answered, “She did; it just took a while before she said anything.”
The
next three days had been just as miserable as Maggie had promised. Heyes hurt in every muscle and fiber in his
body, he was alternately burning up and shivering with cold, and every time he
breathed, it seemed, his charming and beautiful nurse was trying to pour
liquids down him. Or Kid was, if she
wasn’t there. But she was there plenty,
day and night, just as she’d told them.
“And I’d take it as a personal favor, Mr. Jones, if you don’t shoot me
when I step in during the night.” Heyes
had come to believe he could never again actually want anything to drink –
coffee, lemonade, juice squeezed from oranges one time, apple cider, milk,
water, tea – he had begun to hate the sight of glassware. When he began refusing to drink, Maggie
reasoned with him; Kid threatened him; but when Maggie offered to match him
ounce for ounce, he felt shamed into complying.
And finally, waking to his third morning in bed, he felt better. He pushed off his covers and sat up, enjoying
the sensation. Pulling up the skin on
the back of his hand, he was delighted to see it fall back immediately.
“Need
something, Heyes?” Curry was nearly
dressed and headed out for morning chores.
He’d been surprised how comfortable it already seemed, milking and
mucking out, grooming the horses and filling the wood box like when they were
kids, even stoking fires all day when the laundress and her crew came. All the chores they used to scamp out on at
every opportunity seemed a small price for the care Heyes was getting. For that matter, the cooking alone was
payment enough for the work.
“I’m
better. I think the fever’s broke.” He knew Kid would appreciate the big news.
“Hell,
I knew that.” Kid couldn’t resist
teasing his cousin, a habit they both probably should nip in the full bloom,
but wouldn’t. Mrs. Stevenson was here
about an hour ago and told me your fever was down.”
Heyes
flung his pillow at Curry, who threw it back.
“Did she also tell you how much longer you’d have to be playing farmboy? Since you seem to know so much?”
With
a shake of his head, Curry answered, “Hard to say. Seems it takes a long time to build up your
strength again. And if you push too hard
you’ll…what do you call it…relapse, and be worse than ever. She was very definite about that. So don’t push too hard, all right?” It was an effort to keep his tone light; for
a while there Heyes had given his cousin a scare, and Kid didn’t want to go
through it again any time soon.
Heyes
stopped looking about, noticing details of the room (what were those odd, flat cabinets at the other end of the room?) and
demanded, “Well, it’s not gonna take until the end of June, is it? ’Cause we’re keeping that appointment with the
governor if I have to be in one of those chairs with wheels.”
“No,
more like a couple of weeks, not months.”
Curry finished pulling on his boots and stood to go. “Take your time, though, I’m sort of enjoying
it here. The work’s not that hard, the
company’s pleasant, the food’s the best I ever ate, including our mothers’
cooking. I haven’t even had to listen to
you all that much.” He caught the pillow
again and fired it back on his way out.
It was a cheerful thing to see Heyes getting feisty about things; he
must be feeling lots better.
A
routine set in. Heyes spent more time up
and less in bed each day, coming to appreciate Kid’s description of their
situation. They had somehow landed in a
wonderfully pleasant place. The house
was located in a small valley, protected from the very worst of the snows, near
a middle-sized creek that ran clear and cold now from the spring runoff. The furnishings were on the plain side, but
everything was comfortable and practical.
Heyes was fascinated with the built-in bookshelves in the front parlor,
as well as the chair that somehow unfolded to become a small step ladder and
the odd cabinets that turned out to be beds, folded up to the wall until they
were needed. Turned out Maggie’s parents
had both been orphans raised in a Shaker community in
For
Heyes, the most interesting feature on the place was the round barn. The first day he was able to be out and help
Kid with the chores some, Kid thought he’d have to hog-tie his partner to get
him out of the barn. It wasn’t just the
shape of the building. The stalls were
arranged around a central feed lot, sort of like spokes on a wheel. A wide ramp arced up from one of the wide
entrances to the loft level, so a wagonload of hay could be driven up and
unloaded directly to the loft, then the feed could be easily dropped directly
to the feed station below. Grain bins, a
tack area, storage space for tools and vehicles were set against the curved
walls much like any other barn. It was
so simple it was ingenious.
The
other outbuildings were routinely rectangular – a small bunkhouse (Curry had
been avoiding the question of whether they should move out there when Heyes
started recovering), privy, smokehouse, cool room over the creek, dairy
connected to the side of the house by a covered walkway. Everything was well built and well
fitted. Someone – Maggie’s late husband
and Mr. Rasmussen, it turned out – had taken great care building this
place.
Besides
the place itself, and the first-rate vittles, the two women were delightful
company. Thinking of his time imprisoned
by two women, Curry was appreciative of their cheerful natures. Amy Ruth was a quiet little thing, tending
the baby she seemed ’way too young for and doing most of the cooking. Curry’s protective instincts came to the
forefront around her, and he was even drawn to the baby boy. The first time Heyes found month-old James
Richard cuddled in his cousin’s arm, tiny fist wrapped around Curry’s finger,
he was actually silenced. And later,
when the partners were alone and Heyes started to josh Kid about it, Kid
silenced him again.
He
did not share the story Amy Ruth had confided to him one early morning, pacing the
floor with a colicky baby James. She’d
been up and down with him through the night, Kid knew, and she looked like
she’d been “rode hard and put away wet.”
He put coffee on to brew and reached for the baby, smiling encouragement
when she hesitated. “I can walk him a
while. You just sit and let me know if I
go wrong somehow.” He wasn’t as
confident as he sounded about dealing with the baby, but he could tell Amy Ruth
had reached her limit. And remarkably,
little James settled down pretty soon.
Curry suspected just changing to a different person made a difference,
or maybe even just exhaustion set in, but he was pleased to have helped. He tried to convince Amy Ruth to go back to
bed once James went to sleep, but she wanted to get breakfast started. Talking and helping out, Curry made the
comment that she seemed very young to be a mother already.
Amy
Ruth sighed. “I think you have to be
very young to be as foolish as I’ve been, Mr. Jones.” It was an uncharacteristic gloomy comment,
and Kid asked if she wanted to talk about it.
Suddenly she did. It was not that
startling to Kid: a young girl raised in
an oppressively religious family (her father was a hellfire-and-brimstone
preacher) falls head over heels for the first young buck to talk sweetness to
her. James couldn’t be the first or last
baby to get started that way. But the
end of the story had sort of a twist.
Curry asked, “Did he run out on you, then? Or maybe he was married already?”
“No,
not married.” She didn’t sound bitter,
but sort of defeated, staring at her hands on the table. “But I was so afraid, I didn’t say anything
right at first, and I didn’t see him for a couple of weeks, so I was even more
scared to speak out. By the time I could
tell him, he had already gotten engaged to the other girl he got
pregnant that summer.” It was hard to
shock Kid Curry, but that did it. His
heart went out to the girl, even while his memory summoned up his own years of
having his brains behind his pants buttons.
There but for the grace of God, he thought. At least, he surely hoped he hadn’t left
someone in such a fix.
“And
your parents didn’t take it well, I’ll bet.”
No, they hadn’t. Amy Ruth, when
she finally confessed to her mother, who turned the matter over to the
reverend, had been literally dismissed from her home and family in the dark of
night. Her father physically pulled her
away from her mother’s arms and shoved her out the door. Her mother had managed to tell her, though,
to come to Maggie Stevenson and, after spending the rest of the night in the
barn, Amy Ruth had done so.
Her
eyes shone and a bit of a smile returned when she talked about Maggie taking
her in. “I owe her everything. I don’t know what would have become of me
without her. Not just because she looked
after me as a patient. Her kind of
religion is different from my father’s, more about forgiveness and getting
right with God inside yourself. She
taught me how to feel God’s forgiveness and how to forgive myself. She’s even my legal guardian now, until I’m
twenty-one. She had the lawyer work out
something with James’ father and his family.
There’s money in the bank for James for later on, and we agreed not to
ever make any claim on the family or say who the father is. He’s moved with his wife, so I don’t expect
to see them.”
Curry
thought over that last statement. Must
have been somebody prominent in the local town to want it hushed up so
much. His respect for Maggie grew even
more. A remarkable woman, indeed. No wonder Heyes was showing signs of being
spellbound. Married at eighteen and
widowed at twenty-three a few years ago, Maggie now midwifed and nursed folks,
made soaps and medicines from the huge garden’s plants, and was a published
author. (“What sells are foolish
romantic novels for foolish romantic women, but I also write for the newspaper
some and am working on a real book about medicinal plants.”) Aside from being well educated, she was just
the smartest woman either man could remember meeting. And cheerful and funny – it just made people
feel good to be around her.
That
turning-point day, at
“That’s
Maggie’s gift,” asserted Amy Ruth. “Just
to be around her cheers people up. She’s
plumb ruined me for living anywhere else.”
It was a long speech from the quiet girl.
“Why,
thank you, Amy Ruth.” Maggie stacked the
plates she had gathered into one hand so she could reach down and hug her
friend in her chair. “I don’t know what
I ever did without you, anyway.”
Heyes
and Curry exchanged a look, remembering a conversation. Heyes said, “We had sort of wondered if you
ladies were sisters, when we first came here.”
In
unison, Amy Ruth and Maggie answered, “Not by blood, just by love.” Apparently the subject had come up
before. James’ sudden cry hushed the
laughter. Amy Ruth went into the other
sickroom where they were still staying, and Maggie called after her to stay
there and rest some. She turned to
Heyes, who said, “I know, I know, me too.
I’ll go read for a while.” The
dinner party broke up as Heyes headed for the parlor and his current book,
Curry went out to saddle up and go target practice some, and Maggie attacked
the dishes.
The
parlor was a long room, across most of the front of the house, with tall
windows on the front side looking onto the wide porch. A stone-manteled fireplace took up one end of
the room, on the house’s side wall. In
case that wasn’t warmth enough, there was a heating stove in the other end,
too, where Maggie’s writing area was, dominated by her large secretary desk and
an oaken cabinet. The parlor held a
cherry-wood square grand piano – both women played and sang – plus a sofa and
several wing-back chairs, all large and comfortable. A couple of small lace-covered tables held
lamps, and a gaming table near the fireplace had drawers with cards, chess,
checkers, and something called backgammon which Heyes was determined to
learn. It annoyed him that Maggie still
beat him every time.
When
Maggie came in, intending to write during this quiet hour, Heyes was reclined
against the end of the sofa, boots properly removed, but he wasn’t
reading. He was instead petting and
talking to the monstrous-big dog, who had gradually come to accept the men as
part of his household. They both looked
up guiltily at Maggie’s step. “Well, Mr.
Oso, so you now belong in the parlor, do you?”
Oso thumped his long, heavy tail against the braided rug and looked to
Heyes for protection.
“Don’t
fuss at him – I coaxed him in. You were
busy and he was lonesome, and I was, too.”
Heyes looked up at her with his best getting-out-of-trouble charm,
knowing she wasn’t really angry.
Indeed,
she chuckled but nonetheless pointed, out the door to the kitchen, and Oso
obediently trudged out, stopping briefly for Maggie’s caress. He lay down as soon as he got out of the room,
nose right on the threshold, technically out of the parlor but staying where he
could see Maggie and Heyes. They both
laughed, and Maggie came to see what her patient was reading now. “Idylls
of the King. One of my favorites; I
love all the Arthur legends.” She
perched on the edge of the sofa, feeling Heyes’ forehead.
“I’m
fine,” he protested, but didn’t move away from her touch. “Pretty soon you’ll have me so molly-coddled
I’ll be completely useless.”
“Well,
think of it this way. It doesn’t happen
often that being lazy is the right choice.
And it’s never a good idea to argue with your nurse.” She smoothed a lock of hair off his forehead,
and he caught her hand in his, bringing it to his lips. Pulling her face to his, he found himself murmuring,
“I don’t want to do no arguing.” She
pulled back from the kiss almost immediately but didn’t move away. For a long, tense moment, she simply looked
into his eyes, then seemed to reach some decision. “No, I don’t, either.”
Her
kiss was tender, sweet, and Heyes wrapped his arms around her, feeling he
couldn’t get close enough to satisfy the longing. The kiss grew more intense, Maggie leaning
into his embrace, caressing his face, ears, neck. A wave of desire flashed through Heyes like
nothing he’d ever experienced. For a
second or two, his blood actually felt hot in his veins. When Maggie finally pulled away, he was
incapable of speech, managing only a protesting moan at the separation. It took a couple of seconds for his eyes to
focus on her.
She
was a little breathless, too, and her eyes were dark with desire. But she said, “It’s very foolish of us to
stir up these longings when there’s nothing to be done about them here and now. But I wanted you to know the feelings are
mutual.”
Heyes
struggled for speech. “W-When?” Maggie’s silver-sounding laughter was not the
answer he’d expected, but it broke some of the tension. He dimpled a grin back at her, still hoping
for a more direct reply.
“Such
a practical man,” was her comment. “I don’t
know, my dear. Before anything more can
happen between us, there’s a great deal of truth-telling to be done.”
“What
do you mean?” He tried to keep his voice
light, even as his heart began to sink.
Truth-telling was not a source of comfort for him and Kid these
days. He wondered sometimes if it ever
would be, if they’d ever feel honest and whole again.
Maggie
smoothed his hair again and removed his hands from her waist, setting them on
his chest. “Just what I said. We have things to tell each other. Let’s powwow at supper.” And suddenly she was leaving, Oso padding
along with her. There’d be no writing
accomplished that afternoon.
Seamus was surprised at the idea of a woman keeping her own counsel like that. His ma was known for speaking her mind freely and immediately. When he commented on the notion, Curry smiled. “Maggie Stevenson is a remarkable woman.”
Heyes was moved to speak. “You have no idea.”
“Sure I do,” retorted Kid. “Maybe not everything you know, but enough to appreciate how special she is. Like this, Seamus: the first time I drove into town with her, she not only insisted on paying me cash above taking care of Heyes, she recommended the best whorehouse to me.” Seamus and Briscoe both reacted to that statement, but Briscoe kept his mouth shut when he caught Heyes’ glare. Heyes turned the glare on his cousin, and Kid hastened to explain. “Remember, she’s a nurse, and she told me that while she wouldn’t presume to tell me what to do with my own time, that if I did intend ‘renting some female companionship,’ I should go to Rose Turner’s place because the girls there were checked every two weeks for diseases. Never mind whether I did or not,” he didn’t wait for Seamus to ask, “the point is, what other good, decent, church-going woman would do that?”
The young guard acknowledged the truth of it and was about to ask how she knew, when it occurred to him she was probably the one who checked them. Instead he inquired when the lady did tell them she knew them. Beginning to be sorry he started such a long story, Curry looked over at his partner, hoping Heyes was ready to take over the talking. But no.
“Well, Heyes has never told me exactly what happened, but he and Mrs. Stevenson had begun to have feelings for one another, about the time he was really getting back on his feet. And Mrs. Stevenson decided it was time to get everything out in the open, our secret and hers, too. Turns out she knew us because a long time before, she’d been on a train we robbed, one of our earliest jobs with the Devil’s Hole gang, in fact.”
Heyes
shook his head. “I would have remembered
you, I think.”
“And
I’m that heartbroken, too, that you don’t.
Here I thought I was so special, but I guess you kiss all the new brides
when you’re robbing trains.”
“THAT
WAS YOU?” from both men – Curry in
delighted surprise, Heyes in remorseful horror.
To think the woman he was rapidly falling in love with had been the
young bride he
couldn’t
resist teasing. He’d been so stupid that
day, all keyed up from the job, just had to razz the newlyweds, even insisting
on kissing the bride. “My God, Maggie,
I’ve never been so sorry for what we used to do. I can’t tell you how ashamed I am to face
you.” He couldn’t face her, in fact,
burying his face into his crossed arms on the supper table.
She
came around the table, sliding in beside him on the bench. “But that’s good, don’t you see? When you truly repent of a sin, it means
you’re ready to accept God’s forgiveness.”
Never
mind God right now, he thought. “What
about your forgiveness?”
She
raised his head, smiling at him. “You’ve
had mine for years, you silly man. And,
as I recall, Robbie took retribution at the time.”
“That’s
right, Heyes!” Details were coming back
to Kid now, and he remembered the sudden, powerful punch the new groom laid
onto Heyes. “It was three days before
you could chew food again, remember?”
With
a sigh, Heyes finally met Maggie’s eyes and half-smiled. “He sort of did me a favor, at that. That’s the only reason Jim Santana didn’t
pound me into the ground.” He’d been
careful never to get Big Jim that mad again, tending strictly to the business
at hand from then on, and becoming better at the job because of it.
Abruptly, Curry stopped talking. The details of the kiss-the-bride story seemed too personal to go into with Seamus, let alone Briscoe, glowering in the opposite seat. And Amy Ruth’s story was a different matter entirely, although it had affected Kid quite strongly. And Maggie’s other secret – he looked to Heyes, perplexed. “Should I tell the part about Maggie’s relative?”
“No, you should just shut up. Time enough for that story when we bring Harry up on kidnap charges.” Heyes had obviously had enough sharing for the time being. Kid was tired of doing all the talking, anyway, so neither of them argued when Briscoe snarled something about everybody shutting up before it sounded any more like a ladies’ gossip circle. Seamus shut his mouth without asking the question he had formed, and it appeared he was trying to think out an answer for himself. Not long after, his replacement came in. On his way out of the car, out of Briscoe’s line of sight, Seamus mouthed silently Governor Stevenson?. Curry briefly nodded; Heyes just smiled. The young man shot a glance at Briscoe, shaking his head, and went back to the coal car with much on his mind.
Maggie
had owned up to her deception even before telling Amy Ruth who their new hands
really were. “I know you asked me early
on, whether I was related to Governor Stevenson, and I told you no, Mr.
Jones. Technically, that wasn’t a lie
since a relation is defined as blood kin, but it’s a distinction without a
difference. The truth is we are
connected; Jim Stevenson is my father-in-law.”
Questioned as to why she had effectively lied, she explained, “Knowing
who you are, I thought it might put you off from staying here; and this one
(nodding to Heyes) needed to stay put.”
She
went on to explain to Amy Ruth who the two really were, and they went on to
explain that they had gone straight and the ladies should not be worried about
trouble from them. Somewhere in the
course of all the explaining, it came up that the men were scheduled to see
Governor Stevenson at the end of June.
“The
end of June? Specifically then?” Maggie sounded excited. “What for?”
Heyes
hesitated, wishing he were free to speak of the amnesty. “Well, it’s not something we can talk about
just yet…”
Maggie
slapped the table, grinning broadly.
“You’re up for amnesty, aren’t you?”
“What
makes you so sure?” Curry wanted to
know.
“Because
Jim always announces the important amnesties on the Fourth of July. It’s part of that long boring speech he makes
every year, about the country being founded by people starting new lives and
such. If he wants to see you at the end
of June, it’s for that. He wouldn’t call
you in just to say no.”
Kid
and Heyes looked at each other for a long moment, hardly daring to hope. They’d been close, then disappointed,
before. But Maggie was so elated…and Lom
had been so specific about being there that last day of June…suddenly the room
erupted in celebration, laughter, hugs all around, dancing for joy.
Separately, Kid and Heyes tried to summon up that memory as
the train shook and rattled. It was a
long, monotonous thirty hours or so. Any
hopes Heyes and Curry had of attracting attention to their situation in
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
“Harry Briscoe, Bannerman Detective Agency, Sheriff.” Briscoe shook the lawman’s hand more enthusiastically than he needed to. “Well, there they are, Sheriff, Hannibal Heyes and Kid Curry, in the flesh, just like I telegraphed you.” A body would think Harry had created them from dust with his own hands, he was so proud of himself.
“That true, gents?” Sheriff Walker seemed pretty easy-going under the circumstances, Briscoe thought. He checked to be sure the railroad guards were still at the ready. They were, looking pretty uncomfortable about it, but there.
Curry deferred answering to Heyes, who replied, “Yes, we’re Curry and Heyes, but you should know, Sheriff, that we’re not wanted any more. And if you don’t know it already, we can easily prove it. Briscoe’s barking up the wrong tree, as usual.”
Unruffled, Sheriff Walker recommended that they all just step over to his office, just around the corner, and straighten everything out. “And you railroad gents can go back to your regular jobs; thank you very much for your help. Mr. Briscoe, would you rather carry those bags or uncuff Mr. Heyes and Mr. Curry so they can carry their own?” Briscoe started to protest, but the sheriff just repeated the question, calmly and firmly. Heyes and Kid looked at each other, suspecting something was up. Briscoe bent to pick up the luggage, and as he did, the sheriff gave the partners a large wink. Trying to contain relieved grins, they followed the sheriff’s directions to the office.
A portly, well-dressed, and visibly angry man was waiting in the office as they stepped in. He waited for the last of the foursome to come in and could contain himself no longer. “Briscoe!”
“Mr. Bannerman! Nice of you to come down! Well, sir, as you can see—”
“As I can see? All I see is the same idiot I fired last month, only more idiotic! How dare you call yourself a Bannerman Detective?” The irate man waved a document at Briscoe, who was shocked into stillness, still incongruously holding the two carpetbags. “Do you know what this is? It’s a sworn statement, sworn to by me, that you were fired from my detective agency weeks ago, and that your actions since then are in no way connected to me or my agency. Just because you’re too stupid to read your dispatches, not to mention the newspapers, and know these men aren’t wanted any more, you needn’t think you’ll put any of the blame onto the Bannerman Detective Agency!”
Sheriff Walker stepped in between them, smoothly guiding Bannerman away from the stricken Briscoe and toward the door. “No one’s going to impugn your agency, Mr. Bannerman, don’t give it a thought. You can go back to your office now, and don’t waste a worry on any of this. We all know your agency is in no way responsible. Good day, Mr. Bannerman.” He closed the door and turned back to take stock of things. Heyes and Curry had found chairs and sat to watch the tirade, which they found tremendously cheering. Briscoe, apparently taken with a catatonic spell, was still staring at the door, bags in hand. He jumped when the sheriff addressed him. “Mr. Briscoe, why don’t you put down the bags? I think we can take the handcuffs off Mr. Curry and Mr. Heyes now.”
Dropping his burdens, Briscoe handed the key to the sheriff
and made his way to a chair near the lawman’s desk. He moved stiffly, like he’d suddenly aged,
and sank heavily into the chair.
Silently, he watched as
Sheriff Walker lifted Heyes bodily and tossed/shoved him toward Curry, who held on to him. “That’s enough, Mr. Heyes. I don’t say he didn’t have it coming, but you’re to stop now.” The big man seemed the type who didn’t get openly excited by too much. “Why don’t you show him the amnesty papers? Or I can, if you’d prefer.” He took Heyes’ document and made Briscoe look at it. “It’s true, Mr. Briscoe, you arrested two free citizens.”
“We tried to tell you, too, Harry, didn’t we?” demanded
Curry. “But you wouldn’t listen, and now
you’ve made us miss—Sheriff, we need to send a telegram right away to Sheriff
Trevors in
“Well, maybe not, if it’s to let him know where you are. He knows. He’s the one telegraphed me to meet you at the station, in fact.”
The partners consulted each other. “Seamus,” said Curry. “The couple who called the conductor,” said Heyes.
The sheriff laughed.
“Both, in fact. Plus, the
conductor himself buttonholed Trevors’ deputy at the
“Then let’s go, Heyes—much obliged, Sheriff Walker.” Curry was already reaching for his carpetbag when the officer responded.
“What do you want to do about Mr. Briscoe?”