Halloween 2008

By Calico
Strangeness on a Train

A sudden flash of lightening illuminated two figures on the isolated station platform; brims
pulled down, collars turned up against the lashing rain.

“If it wasn’t…” A crash of thunder drown out the words of the slimmer man. He tried again. “If it
wasn’t such a cliché on Halloween, Kid – I’d be tempted to say ‘It’s a dark’n’stormy night’.” A
second flash displayed a would-be-cheerful dimpled smile, under a dripping, silver trimmed
black hat.

The figure in the soaking wet sheepskin coat had been exuding waves of silent disgruntlement.
His companion’s smile irritated him into adding words to complete the effect. “I don’t mind
clichés Heyes,” he growled. “‘I told you so’ is a cliché and I’m plannin’ on using that one a few
more times before the night’s out. I told you so Heyes! I told you that plan’d never work.
NEVER! I TOLD you so.”

“Could’ve been worse, Kid.”

“How the Sam Hill could it’ve been worse? We’re penniless, not a horse between us, soaked to
the skin and freezin’ our butts off in the middle of nowhere!”

“We could’ve been stranded somewhere the trains don’t run.”

Kid stared morosely into the ink black of the night. “We musta stood here for hours. I’m
beginnin’ to think we ARE stranded somewhere the train don’t run.”

“You gotta have faith, Kid.”

Heyes too stared along the dark track. Unseen by his partner, a pair of tapered fingers crossed.
His other hand fished beneath his coat and drew out a pocket watch. At another handy lightening
flash, he remarked, “Close on midnight.”

Then, his brown eyes narrowed. A tiny speck of light was nosing through the night. Curving and
cornering with the contours of the land, but definitely closer every moment.

“There you see!” Heyes tried not to make it a sigh of relief. “The train’s coming.”

Together they watched the approaching light. The storm was beginning to ease. The sound of the
rain subsided. The night became almost calm. Almost silent. Still the light drew nearer.
Something seemed – eerie. What?

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“Heyes?” said Kid, tentatively. “Is it me, or is that train kinda – quiet?”

A pause. Heyes summoned up another cheerful smile. “The wind must be blowing the engine
sound away from us, Kid,” he suggested, with more confidence than he felt.

Still watching. A final flash silhouetted the now close train against the bleak horizon.

“Heyes? Is it me – or is that the blackest train you ever saw?”

“Trick of the light, Kid,” said his partner firmly. He continued to stare, his smile becoming a
shade fixed, then he shuddered.

“You cold?” enquired Kid.

“Nah, just someone walking over my grave.”

As his words lingered in the chill air, the ex-outlaws exchanged a glance.

Both were considering whether they had any reason NOT to board that train which the other
would not scoff at.

---oooOOOooo---

“Oh you poor boys!”

“Come on in – don’t worry about crowding us! We’ll squeeze up and make room!”
“We don’t mind being crowded, do we ladies?”
“No! We’ll happily squeeze up against… I mean squeeze up FOR these young men!”
“Put your hats up on the rack to dry. Just push our boxes along!”
“Take those wet clothes… I mean coats off, right now!”
“Would you like something hot and steamy?”
“She means coffee. We have hot coffee.”
“Sweet buns…”
“They have – haven’t they?”
“No I mean, we’ve some buns left. They must be hungry.”
“You sit here, young man – plenty of room! Oooh – is that a gun on your leg or are you…?”
“Shush! Of course it’s a gun on his leg.”
“YOU – you must come sit next to me…”
“Oh look! He’s shy! That’s so cute!”

The ex-outlaws exchanged a glance. Once the train halted, they had stepped into the nearest
carriage. Seeing it seemingly full, they had begun to make civil noises about not wanting to
disturb the ladies, not wanting to drip rain all over them…But, even Heyes’ silver tongue fell
silent before the vociferous welcome and feminine fussing. Since the train had pulled away
almost immediately, the partners were fixed in this carriage for the duration.

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When the initial flurry died down, Heyes and Curry saw that what had initially seemed to be
close on a dozen women of what is politely termed ‘a certain age’, or even more politely termed
‘in their prime’ were, in fact, only four. Both partners were now firmly wedged between two
ladies. A handy folding tea-table had been set between them and both were being pressed to wrap
themselves around sandwiches – “I’m sure you’d love a roll, Mister Jones.” – and cake – “Please
take my cherry, Mister Jones.” – and hot coffee from a new-fangled thermos flask – “More
sugar? Or are you,” coy giggle, “…Sweet enough, Mister Jones?”

The ex-outlaws exchanged another glance. There was nothing sinister here after all! Except…
Nah, nothing. Why shouldn’t four ladies be taking a trip – at midnight – across the West? If they
were sitting a shade close, hey! It was a small carriage. As for Kid’s feeling that three sets of
eyes were fixed on his every move – hungry, gloating, watching, waiting – Nah! Motherly. That’s
all the expressions were – motherly.

“Where are you ladies headed?” he asked, civilly.

“Oh! We’re here to collect…” began Blue Ribbons. A guilty hand clapped across her mouth.

“We’re going to a handicrafts convention,” declared Flowered-Bonnet, firmly.

“What kind of handicrafts, ma’am?” enquired Heyes, turning on a touch of dimpled charm. To
his chagrin, it had no effect. Kid remained the centre of attention.

“Mainly weaving,” said Lace-Trim-Blouse, smiling brightly at Kid. “Weaving the thread…”

“Weaving, sure,” interrupted Flowered Bonnet, with another reproving frown. “But, all kinds of
craft. Spinning, sewing…”

Blue Ribbons held up a silk filled needle and pair of glinting scissors and also beamed at Kid.
“We’re all REAL good with our hands, Mister Jones,” she chirped.

A giggle from Lace-Trim-Blouse. “I reckon when the convention see what we’ve brought, we’ll
be the guests of honour!”

A delighted trill of feminine laughter from Blue Ribbons.

“She means shawls,” put in Flowered-Bonnet with a slight shake of the head at her friends.
“We’re taking shawls we made.”

Affirmative nods all round.

“Uh huh?” said Kid, torn between enjoyment and embarrassment at having two comely matrons
pressing in on either side. Sheesh. Any closer and they’d be on his lap.

“Can I tempt you again with my plums, Mister Jones?” cooed Flowered-Bonnet, leaning
forward.

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Kid, reluctantly, refused a fourth slice of cake on the grounds that he was full up. He drained the
last of his coffee and let his gaze drift to the one lady who was NOT staring at him with ravenous
– no, no, ravenous was the wrong word, he corrected himself – rapt, that was it, rapt attention.
The fourth lady – Sable-Furs - was sitting quietly beside Heyes in a shadowed corner. Only
occasionally did her eyes flick a calculating, sideways glance at the dark-haired former leader of
the Devil’s Hole Gang. For the first time Kid noticed she held a deck of cards in her hands. His
brows drew together. Surely they had not been there before.

Heyes noticed his partner’s frown and looked down.

“You’re interested in my cards, Mister Smith?” asked the low voice of Sable-Furs.

“Sure, ma-am,” he smiled. “Perhaps you ladies would join my partner and I in a friendly game to
pass the time?”

“These cards,” a pair of dark eyes met his, “…are not made for trivial games. These are the tarot
and they reveal the future.” She began to deal, face up, onto the table. “The Tower, showing ruin
or destruction…The Hanged Man…Judgement,” Lightening flashed, turning the three friendly
feminine faces in the carriage suddenly into weird, shadowed masks. “…Death.”

“Uh huh,” Heyes managed, in the sudden silence.

“You boys would love her to read the cards for you, wouldn’t you?” beamed Lace-Trim-Blouse,
leaning forward and squeezing Kid’s hand affectionately.

“Sure,” agreed Heyes, always curious over anything new.

“Er…” hesitated Kid, who hadn’t liked the sound of any of the options so far.

“The Sun – symbol of success and happiness,” purred Sable-Furs, still dealing, “…The Wheel of
Fortune. The Lovers.”

“Sure,” agreed Kid. After all, it must all be nonsense. He wasn’t superstitious. Much.

Deft fingers swept up the dealt cards and shuffled the deck. Slim fingers dealt a card onto the
tiny folding table.

“The Knight of Swords. I see violence in your past. Gun fire – and money, much money. I hear
loud explosions. I hear the sound of galloping hooves.”

The ex-outlaws exchanged a glance.

“Is that a fact?” managed Heyes, civilly, with his best ‘I’m humouring you’ innocent smile.

Another card was dealt. “The Fool on the edge of the Abyss. You share a quest the end of which

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is in doubt. “ And another. “The Hierophant. Your fate depends on a man of high standing – but
you fear he is a deceiver. You hold a secret which much be kept at all costs… The secret
concerns… concerns names…I see…I see …I see the letter ‘H’ connected with Mister Joshua
Smith…”

“Is she close?” fluted Flowered-Bonnet.

“She is! She is! Look at their faces!” trilled Blue-Ribbons.

Indeed, both partners’ expressions had moved from ‘poker-faced’ into ‘frozen’.

Kid swallowed and looked intently at Sable-Furs. Did she know him or Heyes? Was she just
toying with them? A pair of dark eyes rose slowly from the cards to meet his blue stare. The
blond ex-outlaw felt cold fingers run over the nape of his neck and, icily, down his spine. The
man who could outstare hardened gunfighters dropped his gaze.

“She’s good, isn’t she?” beamed Lace-Trim-Blouse, laying a warm hand over his suddenly cold
one.

Against his better judgement Kid gave a gruff, “Uh huh.”

Heyes shifted in his seat. “Seems to me, ma-am, whether you’re right or wrong, it’s not exactly
foretelling the future.”

A small, white hand swept up the cards and held them out. “If you would know the future, tap the
deck three times.”

Silence.

“If you are afraid – why then, let your fate remain untold.”

Silence.

Sable-Furs’s eyes stayed lowered. But three eager, admiring gazes urged the partners on. Three
sets of shining curls nodded encouragingly.

Both men exchanged a mute conversation. ‘Was that a dare?’ ‘Reckon so.’
After all, if they DIDN’T tap the deck, what excuse could they possibly offer?
It STILL had to be nonsense. Just lucky guesses. Didn’t it?

The flicker of a questioning raised eyebrow from Heyes. A tiny answering nod from Kid. Two
tanned hands reached out, together.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

“The Hermit. The Lovers. The Queen of Coins…” Sable-Furs voice dropped still lower. “I see a

5
cold place…”

The Tale of the Mouse’s Paw

I see a cold place.

Smith and Jones shivered. Despite having cut plenty of wood to feed the pot bellied stove, the
abandoned cabin remained damp and draughty. A chill wind whipped around their ankles.
Outside the storm flung yet another flurry of snow against the frail shutters. Both men pulled
their coats a little tighter, blew on their fingers and fanned out the result of Jones’ deal.

“I’m in for…” The dark-eyed man frowned, considering. “I’m in for three matches.”

A sigh from across the table.

“I fold.”

“Fold! What the Sam Hill are you folding for? You’ve got three aces! I got nothing!”

Jones opened his mouth to ask how Smith could know the contents of his hand, remembered who
Smith was, shut it again. He scowled. “I’m folding ‘cos I’m sick of playing for matches. In fact –
I’m sick of pretty much everything. Sick of this cabin. Sick of waiting year after year for news
that never comes. Sick of…” He sighed, deeply. “Sorry. Guess sitting quiet in the middle of a
storm just gets a man to broodin’. I thought…I thought by now we might be – y’know – startin’
afresh.”

“Uh huh,” nodded Smith, sadly. He understood.

“Maybe…” A faint flush showed on Jones’ cheeks. “Maybe even settling down with a good
woman.”

“Or, even better, a real wicked woman,” joshed Smith.

Jones tried to answer his friend’s smile, but…

Silence.

Suddenly, something sounded above the keening of the storm. A desperate hammering outside.

A glance was exchanged. Both partners drew their guns. Jones levelled his colt steadily at the
door. Striding swiftly, Smith drew back the rough bolt barring the entrance.

A snow smothered figure stumbled inside, falling to its knees. A pair of frantic dark eyes looked
up from between locks of black hair.

“Preacher!” exclaimed Jones, holstering his gun and joining Smith in helping their frozen friend
to his feet.

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---oooOOOooo---

“It wasn’t the whiskey did for me. Not this time…” Preacher’s eyes stared into the orange glow
of the stove. “It was…” He shuddered. “It was the curse of the mouse’s paw!”

“Mouse’s paw?” repeated Smith.

“Uh huh. I won it in a poker game from an old soldier who claimed it granted three wishes to
each of its owners.”

“You never fell for that, Preacher?”

“Sure did. Mind – I ain’t claiming I was exactly sober at the time. But…” The knuckles of the
thin hand clutching the tin mug of hot coffee shone white. “I reckon if you’d heard him, you
fellas woulda believed him too. Told me this paw had a spell put on it by some Indian Shaman. A
very holy man.” The pain filled eyes rose from the fire. Flames danced in the inky depths. “He
wanted to show that fate ruled people's lives, and that those who interfered with it did so to their
sorrow."

Silence.

“The old soldier told me the comrade from who HE got the paw, on his third and final wish,
wished for death.”

Slowly, Preacher drew a white handkerchief from inside his dark coat. Laying it on the table, he
unfolded the linen layers. There, inside, was a minature, shrivelled, clawed foot.

Silence again. Preacher’s eyes stayed riveted on the paw.

Smith cleared his throat. “Did you wish?” he said. “I mean – did it work?”

A gulp. Then, as if against his better judgement, Preacher nodded.

A long pause. Then, whip-quick, he reached out and tossed the paw into the flames.

With a cry of surprise and, quicker still, Smith caught up a spoon and rescued it. “If that thing
really grants wishes, it must be worth a fortune!”

“Don’t be a fool!” begged Preacher. “Pitch the paw onto the fire!”

The partners exchanged a glance. A silent question from Smith. A ‘not sure’ shrug from Jones,
who was frowning at the minute piece of withered flesh.

“If you wish,” pleaded their old friend, “…At least promise you’ll think first and only wish for
something reasonable.”

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Smith frowned at the paw nestled in his palm. He met preacher’s eyes and nodded, slowly. He
strode over to his partner. “We both know my mouth sometimes runs away with me,” he told the
blond haired man. “So, I think you should hold this.”

Jones repressed a shudder as he took the tiny, clawed object. He wrapped it safely in his own
handkerchief and stowed it away in an inner pocket of his jacket.

---oooOOOooo---

Some Weeks Later

Jones, seated in the small café, pushed his stew around the plate. He was missing his partner, but
couldn’t deny when they were down to their last dollar and Lom told them of two jobs paying
hard cash, it made sense to split up and take them. But, waiting for Smith to show up, wasn’t
what was REALLY eating him. THAT - that was Em. Or – rather what had happened the day
before he met Em.

It’d been his birthday. Not just A birthday; one of the real mean fellas with a zero on the end.
Jones had been unable to shake off the feeling that the years were slipping by. That his life would
NEVER change. He and Smith would keep on running, keep on hiding until…
And, he’d never…
He’d…
Jones felt dumb even thinking back over it. He’d got drunk. Not celebrating drunk. Gloomy,
brooding, maudlin – stinking - drunk. He’d glowered at the working girls as if it were their fault.
Because, they were all the feminine company he’d ever have and, in the depths of his despair, he
saw more clearly than usual that, beneath the painted smiles, the only people these girls despised
more than themselves were the customers. Men like him.

He’d stumbled back to his cheap room. How many shabby, soulless rooms had he seen over the
years? How many more would he have to endure? Through the fog of alcohol in his brain, he had
stared at his saddlebags, thinking about wishes. About the mouse’s paw.

Then, he had taken it out and…

Maybe.
He had been so drunk that the next morning he wasn’t real sure it had happened.
The paw had been out on the dresser, but…
Had he wished for ‘the love of a good woman’? Had the tiny piece of flesh glowed hot in his
palm?
Nah! Even if he really HAD been drunk enough to wish, that last bit was just cheap whiskey and
imagination.

But, the very next morning he had met Em; waitressing here in this café. It’d been…A wry smile
twisted Jones’ sun-kissed cheeks. It’d been ‘love at first sight’. If she was to be believed – and he
DID believe her, he trusted every word that girl said – it had been just the same for her.

8
It wasn’t the paw! He wasn’t dumb enough to think that! After all, a lot of the glooming over
‘never finding love’ had been nothing but birthday blues. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t had his share
of flings over the years. Nothing like this though. THIS was the real thing.

It was dumb. It was wrong. It couldn’t last. He’d have no choice but to hurt her. He’d hate
himself when he had to leave. And, even though it’d tear him apart, he would HAVE to leave.
But, despite all that, it WAS the real thing. Jones couldn’t help sheer joy bubbling up inside as
Em smiled over. This last week had been the happiest of his entire life.

---oooOOOooo---

“Thaddeus,” murmured Em, her voice muffled as she was too dang happy to lift her mouth away
from where it was nuzzled into his chest, “Have I told you recently – I love you?”

“It’s been a few minutes,” said Jones.

The edge of bleakness in his voice brought her head up.

That had been a mistake. Probably the most wonderful mistake he’d ever made, but still, a
mistake. Jones hadn’t planned it. Sheesh, no! He’d told himself no way would he take advantage
of Em. She meant far too much to him. He’d be hurting her bad enough without risking…
It’d just – happened.
They loved each other so much, SO much, it’d just…
He squeezed his eyes shut. It’d been Em’s first time. He was a rat.
She must think…
But, he hadn’t told any lies. He DID love her. He adored this girl.

“You don’t…” There was a waver in her voice. He heard a gulp. He squinted down at the piquant
little face that meant more to him than all the world. Her bottom lip just gave one wobble before
she set it. “You don’t think less of me now, do you Thaddeus? I know I …I shouldn’t have…I
just…”

“Hey!” He caught her up in a hug that made her squeak, turned her back onto the pillow and
kissed her. “I could never think less of you. NEVER! Whatever happens, Em, you gotta believe I
love you. I LOVE you. But…”

His kiss had brought her smile back. A teasing hand ran up his spine to tousle the curls at the
nape of his neck. “But?” she prompted.

“You know when we first met? I said I’d only be here for a week or so…”

“Uh huh? But…I was thinking, Mister Fraser is hiring…it may not be quite the work you want,
but – it’d be a start … and, his foreman kinda has a soft spot for me…NOT like that! He’s past
fifty! More – more like an uncle…’Cos we both sing in the choir and, when he bust his wrist I
used to take round his favourite stew and a dish of pie…’cos …”

9
“Em. I can’t stay. I just – can’t. And, you hafta believe – if I could – I would. I’d take any dang
job going to stay here and marry you and spend the rest of my life with you, if I could. I can’t.
I…” Jones voice broke. This time the gulp was from him. His face turned away and one tanned
hand moved from its nesting place on Em’s back to rub at his suddenly brighter blue eyes.

Em gazed at the man she loved. Loved AND trusted. Any doubt that he had simply turned on the
sweet talk to – to ‘have his wicked way with her’ was quashed by seeing the tears he tried to hard
to hide. He loved her. She knew that. But… Em was no fool. A certain air of danger hung around
Thaddeus Jones. She saw his wariness of strangers. She saw how he watched the roads into this
small town. She had guessed there might be – trouble – in his past, though she had shied away
from dwelling on what that might be.

“Thaddeus,” she said, quietly. “If we had a little stake…I mean enough to …” she hesitated, in
case her guess made him angry, “Enough to get us south of the border and buy us a little place –
would you marry me then?”

“Like a shot!” exclaimed Jones, without thinking. He drew in his breath and thought for a
second. He never, NEVER wanted to lie to Em. If they had a stake like that, his partner Smith
would come too! The two people he loved most in the world would be safe while he waited for…
“Like a shot,” he repeated, kissing her hair. “But, we don’t.”

“We might,” she said, slowly. Suddenly, she pulled away, swung out of bed and began to pull on
her clothes. “I – I have to go.”

He sat up. “Wha…?”

Small, work-roughed fingers stopped his question. “I’ll tell you if it works!” A pair of lips
replaced the fingers, kissed him and…she was gone.

---oooOOOooo---

Jones stared at the stained paper covering the wall. Smith would arrive any day now. They had to
move on. That was their life. But…could he bear to leave Em?

Pain twisted at his heart. He had wished for love – and his wish had been granted with a
vengeance.

He thought about the mouse’s paw. Of course, it was nonsense. The wishing and then meeting
Em was nothing but coincidence. But…

Preacher had warned about wishing for money. About wishing for anything – unreasonable.
Suppose he made sure to wish only for – reasonable? Nothing greedy. Since it didn’t work
anyhow, what harm could that do? It left one wish for his partner. Though – since it was all
dumb, that didn’t matter.

Jones’ eyes squeezed shut. Em’s smile danced behind his lids. His breath came hard and fast.

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Without further delay he was out of bed, tearing at the buckles of his saddlebags. The paw was in
his hand. He wished… Careful, careful… Keep it reasonable!

“I wish Em and me had a stake. Just enough to set us up, south of the border, to wait safely for
the Governor’s verdict, however long that takes.”

His palm burned. Or…The sensation was gone so quickly that, once again, Jones could not rule
out ‘imagination’.

Footsteps racing up the bare hotel stairs, a tap at the door, Em, flushed with excitement,
something clutched in her hands, burst in.

“Thaddeus, Thaddeus! We have a stake! It worked. Not QUITE how I meant – it’s kinda sad in a
way. But WE can head south and be together!”

“A stake?” he repeated, confused.

“Uh huh! Ten thousand dollars…”

Jones eyes settled on the black object in her hands. He reached out and, without a pause in her
speech, she answered the unspoken request by handing it over.

“You see, I never told you, ‘cos – why would I? – but when I was still a girl I was a passenger on
a train that got stopped by outlaws…”

Jones stared at the black object in his hands. His fingers tenderly ran over the bright silver
trimmings.

“…It was the Plummer gang. And, this morning – I KNEW I recognised him! And, I’d read the
poster. $10,000!”

One of the silver studs was not so bright. Jones touched the still wet splatter. He pressed the
damp patch inside the battered hat.

“…I wouldn’t have said anything to the Sheriff if we hadn’t needed the money so bad. … It’s
kind of mean, but… we HAVE to be together…”

He drew his fingers out of the hat. Stared at the scarlet stain.

“I know it SAID ‘Dead or Alive’, but, I never thought they’d shoot him. I thought he’d just get
locked up. I wish…I wish it hadn’t happened this way…I’ve never seen a man killed before…I
picked up the hat ‘cos…” she gulped, “It’d just been left lying in the dust and…”

She tailed off as she met the stricken gaze of those blue eyes. Jones whole body had stiffened.

“Han! Han!” It was almost a whisper, but aching with pain. Jones reached out for a tiny object on

11
the table. “I wish I was with you, Han!”

Em’s mouth opened, but her throat was too tight to let out the scream of terror as her first and
only true love collapsed, lifeless, to the floor.

---oooOOOooo---

“Oh! That was sad!”

“And eerie!”
“I suppose the moral is – be careful what you wish for.”
“Poor Mister Jones!”
“POOR Thaddeus – I may call you Thaddeus?”
“Mind you, Thaddeus had been a naughty, naughty boy! Using his charms on that girl, Em!”
“Boys WILL be boys!”
“Maybe she led him astray!”
“A young man is SO easily tempted by…well, by…” A blush. “Love’s pleasures.”

A pause in the feminine appreciation for Sable-Furs fortune telling. Three pairs of bright eyes
looked at two distinctly shaken ex-outlaws. Three pairs of soft, slim hands stopped stitching at
three dainty embroidery frames which had been brought out once their friend had bent over the
cards.

“Didn’t you think it was sad, Mister Jones? Mister Smith?”

Heyes and Curry shifted in their seats. The shock of hearing Preacher’s name and of realising
that Sable-Furs must, MUST know their real identities had paled into insignificance as the story
reached its conclusion.

Heyes cleared his throat and tried for a nonchalant ‘of course I don’t REALLY believe in it’ tone.
He failed. “Was that…” Heyes searched. A phrase from a book he’d read once swam to the top of
his memory. “Was that the future that MUST be? Or only a future that MIGHT be?”

“The future is only fixed once it becomes the past. There is always choice.” Sable-Furs dark eyes
rose from the deck her hands were now slowly shuffling. “Do you wish to question the cards
further?”

The partners exchanged a glance. Roughly translated, this seemed to suggest they were allowed
to see if their luck would improve with a fresh deal.

“If fear of finding a worse fate than that offered holds you back, so be it.”

A mute conversation. Another, half-reluctant, nod from Kid. Surely the next try HAD to be
better. Two hands reached out.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

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“The Queen of Wands. Strength – inverted. The Tower.”

Three ladies settled to their embroidery with murmurs of happy anticipation. A fourth began her
second tale. “I see a small town and a single lean figure riding in…”

---oooOOOooo---

No Place to Hyde

I see a small town and a single, slim figure coming out of the hotel.
Ten minutes later Jones was pushing stew around his plate in a small café. He missed his partner,
but couldn’t deny when they were down to their last dollar and Lom told them of two jobs
paying hard cash, it made sense to split up and take them. But, knowing he’d have a few days to
wait before Smith showed up, wasn’t what was putting him off his food. THAT was the
hangover. Jones had spent last night drowning his sorrows over yet another birthday on the run
and this particular birthday without even a friend to drink with. Most of the morning had passed
in a stupor. The first part of the afternoon had passed working up the strength to lift his pounding
head from where it was buried, face down, in a drool soaked pillow. Sheesh! He must have been
drunk last night. Lousy, stinking, maudlin drunk. He’d thought solid food might help, but…

Jones gave up on the stew, swallowed the rest of the scalding black coffee and strode out. His
gaze travelled down the dusty street. It passed over the saloon, with a shake of his aching head.
The last thing he needed was ‘a hair of the dog’. Bleary blue eyes took in a livery, a hotel, a
schoolhouse with children clattering down the steps and hollering as they began the run home…
Oh! Despite evil gnomes tap-dancing behind his eyes, Jones straightened up, squared his
drooping shoulders and managed a wan smile and painful tip of the brown hat. A tall lady –
presumably the teacher – was locking the door. She descended the steps at a sedate pace, tying a
demure bonnet over upswept honey coloured hair.

“Good afternoon, ma’am. And, what a lovely aftern…” Jones stopped. The rapid straightening up
had been a mistake. A tan-gloved hand flew to his mouth. He smothered a belch and swallowed
down the acid reflux in his throat. His belly growled in protest and gave a frankly vulgar series
of gurgles and pops. “Excuse me, ma’am,” mumbled the ladies man, a faint flush rising to his
cheeks.

“Are you not feeling well?” came a kindly voice.

“Must have been something I – I ate,” said a subdued Jones, apologetically. A second belch
caught him unawares. “Hic!” he added, explosively. Blushing, he looked up into a pair of smiling
eyes. “Hic!” He clutched his churning stomach. “Oh, for Pete’s …Hic!”

“Miss Stevenson,” the lady introduced herself, holding out a hand clad in a neat kid glove.

“Thadd...Hic…Seuss …Hic…Oh @**@! @**@ing HIC- hiccoughs! I mean…” Blue eyes

widened in horror at this fresh slip. “Sorry ma’am. Hic!”

13
“Come with me, I can help,” she laughed. She pointed at a building displaying ‘Doctor R. L.
Stevenson’ on a small brass plaque. “Come on.”

Giving up on further speech the hiccoughing Jones followed her, concentrating hard on letting no
further outbreaks of wind, odour, nor obscenity escape from any orifice whatsoever.

---oooOOOooo---

“Feeling better?”

Jones drank the last of the concoction. It tasted foul. Like Smith’s coffee after a couple of real
stinking toads had taken an amorous bath in it and a skunk – not a respectable skunk, some black
sheep of the skunk family who the others avoided because of his poor personal hygiene – had
used it as mouthwash and spat it back into the tumbler. But…
He blinked his eyes a few times. Risked a shake of his head. Contemplated his quiet stomach.

“Sure do, ma’am.”

The once again bright blue eyes checked out the bottles and jars, jostling for space on the floor to
ceiling shelves surrounding him. A marble mortar and pestle and a set of weigh scales stood on
the bench in this back office his new acquaintance had led him to.

“You’re a doctor as well as a teacher?” he asked, confused. Now he was not distracted by evil
dancing gnomes, he saw she was not so young as he’d first assumed. Maybe a few years older
than himself. Still a fine, handsome woman though.

“No.” There was an edge of bitterness in the voice. “My younger brother is the doctor. There
wasn’t enough money to train us both and my father believed it a waste to spend college fees on
a girl – even if she did have a passion for science. Once I married, all that good money and fancy
education would be thrown away.” A pause. “Only, I never did marry. I took my teacher’s
certificate, used my wages to help with Robert’s much more important fancy education and…
here I still am.”

“Uh huh?” Jones looked around. They seemed to be alone in the building.

She answered the unspoken question. “Robert’s at a conference in St. Louis. I always cover for
him in the pharmacy when he’s away.” A wry smile. “I assure you, I may not have a medical
degree – but I know quite as much as he does.” Again just a hint of resentment, ”I have done
these fifteen years.”

“Judging from the effects of that, ma’am, I believe you.” Jones nodded at the empty tumbler, “…
That wasn’t like any medicine I ever took before. More like magic.”

Her gaze widened for a moment and then ran over the handsome man seated in the deep leather
chair. The soft lashes dropped over intelligent eyes. “You flatter me, Mister Jones.” She
smoothed a non-existent wrinkle from her serviceable navy serge skirt. “Are you staying in town

14
long?”

“No ma’am. A week at most. Then I’ll be moving on – looking for work.” A pause. . “What do I
owe you, ma’am?” As he had expected, she waved aside any payment. Jones had not missed the
fleeting expression of disappointment at the news he was only passing though. Perhaps just a
shade smugly, Jones treated her to one of his ‘boyish charm’ smiles, “In that case, ma-am,
perhaps I could buy you dinner tonight, to say ‘thank you’?”

“I’m sorry, Mister Jones,” again, just a hint of suppressed resentment appeared. “The terms of
my employment at the school forbid me to pay or receive unchaperoned visits from single men
not in my immediate family, to drive with them in a horse drawn vehicle, to be seen in their
company after dusk, or to engage in any social intercourse whatsoever which might give rise to
suspicion, even if wholly unfounded, of moral turpitude.”

Jones blinked. “Er…I only meant a friendly meal, ma-am. I wasn’t thinking of any turpi…I
wasn’t thinkin’ of nothing at all!”

Again her clever gaze ran quickly over him. “I know you weren’t Mister Jones,” she sighed.

It was true. Jones hadn’t been thinking of anything – much – at all. Maybe a little innocent
feminine admiration as a pleasantly flattering antidote to all the maudlin brooding his thirtieth
birthday seemed to have thrown up yesterday. Miss Stevenson was not exactly the usual picture
of ‘temptation’. From the tip of her tidy bun to the toes of her sensible and well-shined boots she
was clearly the epitome of respectability. Jones didn’t think much of men who fooled around
with respectable women, raising matrimonial hopes they wouldn’t or couldn’t fulfil. Maybe he
HAD raised a few hopes over the years but, not – he hoped – with malice aforethought. Maybe, a
rueful grin, getting older had some compensations? Maybe he’d grow out of being so susceptible
to an admiring smile?

“I guess I’d better be going,” Jones said, rising to his feet. “Thank you again, ma...”

“Oh, don’t go just yet,” Miss Stevenson interrupted, just a shade too eagerly. “Stay for coffee.
And, I’m sure I can rustle up an oatmeal cookie or two.” An entreating smile. “You’ll need
something to wash the taste of the – medicine – away. Call it ‘convalescence’.”

Jones returned the smile. “Not even the starchiest school board could object to a legitimate
patient staying for ten minutes of coffee and ‘convalescence’, huh?”

Miss Stevenson disappeared through a door at the back of the dispensing office. Jones heard the
chink of china, the glug of coffee. What Jones did NOT hear was the tiny plop and fizz as Em
Stevenson, a suddenly resolute set to her chin, added a single black, shining drop from a tiny
silver topped bottle to each cup. She stirred – strictly anti-clockwise – seven times. The
determined lips moved, silently.

---oooOOOooo---

15
Jones slowly came round from his post-coital stupor. Tousled blond curls lifted from where they
were pillowed on…A faint flush rose to his cheeks. He pulled the throw filched from the
respectable couch set back in the dispensing office a little higher over Em’s naked body. Then,
with a wicked smile, he changed his mind. What did he care if it WAS broad daylight outside?
He glanced around at the devastation wrought in the formerly neat room. Bottles and boxes had
been swept from every surface, because every surface had been needed for – other purposes. He
didn’t care about that either.
He didn’t care about being thirty.
He didn’t care about missing out on a wife and children. What kind of loser wanted to be tied
down?
He didn’t care about posses. Nor bounty hunters. Why should he? Wasn’t he the fastest gun in
the west? Let anyone even try to mess with him – he’d know what to do!
He didn’t care about the amnesty. @**@ the governor! And, @**@ his dumb partner for ever
wanting to go straight. Going straight was for quitters!
He didn’t care about ANYTHING.
He was – INVINCIBLE.
And, he was the greatest lover in the history of the world! And, Em deserved him – for a while
anyhow, no WAY was he EVER going to be a one woman man – because she was the most
uninhibited little w**** he’d ever come across. Pun intended! She deserved …She deserved…
Em’s squeak of surprise as she was roughly roused from sleep segued almost at once into a
throaty growl of pleasure…

---oooOOOooo---

Jones slowly came round from his, completely exhausted, post-coital stupor. Tousled blond curls
lifted from where they were pillowed on…Sheesh!
Scarlet, he scrambled to his feet. Trying not to look, he spread the throw filched from the
respectable couch set back in the dispensing office over Em’s naked body. He looked down at
himself. Sheesh! Clumsy in his haste he started to retrieve one item of clothing after another.
Draped on high shelves, dangling over the ceiling lamp, stuffed under the…How the Sam Hill
did THAT get THERE?

As he hopped on one leg trying to pull on the other boot, his mind raced.
WHAT had happened? Well, he could guess that. But, WHAT had come over him? She was a
respectable woman! She could lose her job – let alone her reputation if anyone found out.

He winced as he buttoned his shirt. His back felt like he’d done three rounds with a cougar! Fear
and guilt gripped him. She hadn’t – hadn’t been trying to fight him off, had she? He looked
around at the devastated room. He looked closely at the white arm flung above Em’s head in the
tangle of honey coloured hair. He gulped. Finger bruises; not deep, but definitely there. Surely he
hadn’t…? It’d be bad enough if he’d sweet-talked her into going against her better judgement,
but SURELY he hadn’t…?
He couldn’t remember.
And, the vague images floating in his mind seemed – unbelievable.
It was more like a dim memory of watching some other guy. A guy not without attractions, not
without an inner unshakeable self-confidence Jones might even envy, but…Nah! Jones decided

16
he did NOT like this other fella!

He became aware that Em was waking up. A pair of sleepy eyes blinked at him. She clutched the
throw modestly, but the half-embarrassed, half-teasing smile she gave relieved at least one
qualm. She may, like him, be a touch shame-faced now, but – nothing had happened she had not
wanted at the time.

“Hello, Thaddeus,” she murmured.

“Er…hello…”

“You look like a guilty schoolboy. Are you worried I’m going to give you a hundred lines?”

“Em, I’m so, SO sorry. I should never have taken advantage of you like…”

“You didn’t. I did.”

“Huh?”

“I took advantage of YOU. I knew you’d never make a pass at me. I knew the normal me would
never pluck up courage to …to throw myself at you. And, even if I did – suppose you were ‘a
gentleman’ and saved me from myself. So, I decided to use something to help us both along. You
see…” Em sat up, clutching her knees and still keeping the throw wrapped around her. “I wanted
to feel my heart hammering frantically against a handsome man’s chest – just once. Just once I
wanted to feel …”

“You mean…” Jones interrupted, not sure whether to be angry or not. On the whole he thought
‘stunned’ covered it better than ‘angry’. “You DRUGGED me?”

“It is not exactly a drug. It is … a little experiment of mine. Administered correctly, it releases all
the hidden parts of human nature…relieves us of inhibitions, of guilt, of the burdens of so-called
‘civilisation’…”

A pause.

“I’m sorry,” she offered, not very convincingly. “But, ‘alls well that ends well’. And,” A naughty
grin reminiscent of the uncivilised ‘Em’ of earlier. “You can’t deny it ended well. Several times.”

A rather sheepish grin in return from Jones. She had had no right to do that, but…Well. Like the
lady said, no real harm done.

All of a sudden, Em giggled. “One thing you were doing that I HADN’T expected – I mean,
aside from all the…Well, aside from all THAT… was claiming to be someone else!”

“What?” Jones snapped.

17
“You were claiming to be…” Giggle. “Kid Curry! The fastest gun in the West!”

Silence from Jones.

Fond smile from Em. “I guess it was you reverting to boyish games, Thaddeus – pretending to be
a notorious outlaw. Isn’t that ridiculous?”

“Ridiculous,” he managed, stiffly.

“Can you imagine if you WERE Kid Curry and I gave you the potion? That’d be something to
see!” Choke of laughter.

“Why? Why would it be different for him?”

“Because,” Em pushed back a lock of hair, her brow puckered. “…The potion lets out your dark
side. The wilder the original character, the riskier it is. An outlaw – a gunslinger – will have
released what most of us consider ‘a dark side’ already. AND, he will have seen and experienced
events worse than a run of the mill man. Whatever Kid Curry has kept hidden from himself is
likely to be much worse than – say - the law-abiding itinerant cowboy, Thaddeus Jones.”

“Uh huh?” Jones shifted uncomfortably. He really had NOT liked much of what he recalled
about ‘the other fella’. Still, he reminded himself, no real harm done.

Suddenly, “Ow!”

“What’s wrong? Found a scratch? Same here. My back’s like a …”

“No,” frowned Em. “I rolled on something.” She fished under the throw and drew out a tiny
bottle. The colour drained from her face.

“What is it?” asked Jones, suddenly nervous.

“It’s the potion. It’s empty. You must have made me give you more - or maybe I offered - while
we were both…” Em searched. “Not ourselves.”

“Well, still no harm done. A bottle that size could only hold a teaspoonful.”

“The dose which – changed – us, was a single drop. I’m worried that…” She stopped.

“That – what?” prompted Jones.

“That you may change again. At any moment.” Em bit her lip. Then, with a little shake of her
head, she made an effort to relax. “Maybe you won’t change. And, if you do, what’s the worse
that can happen?”

18
Jones blinked. What WAS the worse that could happen?

---oooOOOooo---

Jones sat quiet in his hotel room. Maybe if he stayed away from any possibility of trouble, he’d
be less likely to change. Maybe the dang potion would just work its way peacefully out of his
system and nothing would happen. Jones filled the water glass and took another long drink to
help wash it through.

He thought about his ‘dark side’. He’d always liked to think of himself …No, no, he always
liked to think of them BOTH as ‘pretty good bad men’. And, sappy as it sounded, the warmth of
that one enduring friendship had kept their slates cleaner than either would have been alone.

But, deep down, Jones knew there was a lot of stuff inside himself he didn’t like. There had been
ever since the pair of them threw up a protective shell around themselves back in the home. And,
as for keeping things hidden from himself…

On a sudden impulse, he unstrapped his gun and tucked it, well out of sight beneath his clean
shirts. If HE couldn’t remember what the other fella did – maybe the reverse was true? IF he
changed, at least ‘Dark Side’ wouldn’t be armed. Of course, without ‘his’ gun ‘he’ would be at
risk – and anything that happened to ‘him’ happened to, er, well – to him…

Jones gave up on the convoluted logic. He leant on the dresser in front of the flecked mirror and
admitted that what he was most scared of was NOT something hurting him. What scared him
most was the potential killer he saw in the glass adding a body to his tally.

He stared at the reflection. Slowly, his fears ebbed away. It didn’t look as if he were suffering
any after effects from Em’s potion. He looked in the pink of health. In fact, a smug smile creased
his cheeks, he looked even better than usual. Better by the minute. He could almost see his face
changing – as he became younger and stronger. Handsome enough to get anything he wanted
from the ladies and dangerous enough for no man to dare try and stop him. What the Sam Hill
had he been worrying about? He was invincible. He could feel the pumping blood tingle in his
veins. The blue eyes glinted cruelly. The mouth lifted in a mocking sneer as Jones retrieved the
gun from where his dumb alter-ego had stashed it. That weakling would rather risk getting shot
at, than send any worthless lawman who recognised him by the short route to oblivion would he?
Pfffttt! HE knew better.

---oooOOOooo---

“Are you gonna draw?” sneered Jones at the terrified youngster standing about ten foot away
from him in the tense and now silent saloon. “’Cos – I never enjoy it so much if I reach first.”

“Look, Mister Jones. It was just an accident. I said sorry. I offered to buy you another…”

“Seems to me a man oughta watch where he’s steppin’. Seems to me a man shouldn’t carry a gun
if he’s too yellow-bellied to use it. Are you too yellow-bellied to use it, boy?”

19
Silence.

“I asked you a question, boy. Are you a yellow-bellied stinkin’ coward?”

Silence. The youngster opened his mouth, almost determined to save a remnant of pride with a
firm ‘no’, took another look at that icy blue stare and shut it again.

“For Pete’s sake,” protested the bartender. “The lad told you he was sorry. Leave it at that.”

“I’ll leave it when he answers my question,” said Jones. “Is he gonna draw – or is he a yellow-
bellied stinkin’ coward? Well boy – which is it?”

Bill Casey’s face twisted in misery. He ought to stand up to this bully. He knew that. But… What
use was pride once you were stone cold and six foot under? He didn’t want to die like this. He
wanted to live. Carry on saving for a little place so in a couple of years – maybe when he turned
twenty-one - him and Ellie could get married. And, if he died, how would Ma manage without
his wages? He had to support her until Charlie and George were old enough to help out.

“I’m a coward,” he muttered. He was never wearing that dumb gun again. Never.

“Can’t hear you,” sing-songed Jones, mockingly.

“I’m a yellow-bellied stinkin’ coward.”

“Louder.”

“I’m a yellow-bellied stinkin’ coward.”

“Hmmm? Seems in that case, maybe I should shoot you anyhow.” The colt flew into Jones’ hand.
The silence around the saloon was broken by gasps and screams from the saloon girls.

“Did ya SEE that?”

“Sheesh!”
“Ain’t no one that fast!”

The cold blue eyes glinted with triumph at the squeal of terror and telltale damp patch spreading
on the youngster’s crotch.

“Bang!” deadpanned Jones, then laughed as he watched a tear escape and a sleeve pull hastily
across a pair of lowered and shamed eyes.

---oooOOOooo---

The early dawn light filtering through the sprigged curtains brought Jones slowly round from his
post-coital stupor. Tousled blond curls lifted from where they were pillowed on…Oh, for Pete’s

20
sake!
Déjà vu swept over him.

He sat up and met Em’s questioning gaze, as she rubbed her arm where his weight had cut off the
circulation.

“Are you…yourself, Thaddeus?”

“How the Sam Hill did I get here?” his question overlapped hers. The implication sank in. “Did
I…change again?”

Still cautious, Em nodded.

“I didn’t – didn’t hurt you did I?” he asked, seeing her wariness.

The soft lashes lowered quickly, hiding a sudden calculating expression in the clever eyes.
“Oh…” A pause. She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. I know it’s not the real you. I’m hardly
entitled to complain, huh? And…” Em gave a mischievous smile, “I’m not hypocritical enough
to deny the pleasure of your company – whichever YOU it is - sure beats a quiet evening
marking math homework!”

Jones searched his – or rather ‘his’ – memory. Again it was vague – like recalling events he had
watched happen to someone else weeks ago. The first images…Jones flushed, moved as if to
cover himself with the sheet, decided any modesty with Em was now just plain dumb and didn’t
bother. He STILL didn’t like the other fella, but he couldn’t deny the guy had stamina.

“Er, Em…” he began, tentatively. “Last night, was I saying stuff about you and me strikin’ it rich
and headin’ off together South of the Border?”

“It might have come up,” she admitted, cautiously.

Jones braced himself. He sure didn’t want to hurt her feelings, but… NOT that after the way
she’d tricked him, Em exactly deserved perfect chivalry. “You do know that’s just the potion
talkin’? As soon as my partner shows up…”

“You have to move on,” she interrupted, in a controlled voice. “You have to move on and you
couldn’t take me along, even if you wanted to. I know. ”

Jones scanned her face. Her expression was…Nah. He gave it up. She was not an easy woman to
read. Not heartbroken though!

“I guess,” he gave a self-deprecating laugh, “only the OTHER fella’d be conceited enough to
believe you’d give up all this…” His hand indicated the tidy, feminine bedroom with it’s
currently rather overcrowded prim little single bed. “And your teaching and all…just to go on the
run with some no-account drifter.”

21
Once more the soft lashes fell to hide the clever, clever eyes. “Put like that, it DOES sound
ridiculous,” she murmured.

Jones returned to searching ‘his’ memory. The events of last night before rejoining Em remained
elusive, but he recalled hard anger. Hatred against a world that had once robbed him of
everything. Determination to get even – to take back what life owed him. Despising all the folk
too weak to take what they wanted. Despising all the dull ordinary little people who settled for
dull ordinary little lives, sweating away at dull ordinary little jobs that were just too dang hard on
the back.
A cold shudder ran over him. Some of this, though twisted out shape and unsoftened by any
human warmth, was too familiar for comfort.
He recalled the lust to…
Jones’ head dropped into his hands. Please, please not that.

“What’s wrong?” Em asked.

“It’s him. I reckon he’s getting stronger. Stronger and – meaner. Em...” He caught her hand,
urgently. “Em. I can’t keep changing. He’s …last night…I’m still not sure what he did, but one
thing I do know. He didn’t kill. And that’s what he really wants. He wants to kill.”

The schoolteacher searched the blue eyes, found the pain hidden there. Her suspicions grew. He
had lied. This wasn’t and never had been ‘law-abiding cowboy, Thaddeus Jones’. This man knew
what it felt like to kill. AND, so did his dark side.

Em opened her mouth to speak, changed her mind and shut it again. She was not sure what she
wanted to say and was wise enough to realise in such situations the best thing is to say – nothing.

“You made this dang potion. I KNOW it’s still in me. I can feel it. Can you make – whaddya call
it – an…”

“An antidote,” she supplied, quietly.

He was right about one thing. The potion was still in him. She knew because it was still in her
too.

“Can you? Can you undo this?”

While she was still hesitating, they became aware of noises outside coming closer. Stomping of
boots. Shouts.
“Not here, Deke.”
“We’ll check out the livery.”

Pulling on a wrap, Em slipped to the window and guardedly twitched the curtain to peep out into
the dim light of early dawn. “It’s the Sheriff,” she hissed, “…And it looks like both deputies
AND a couple of other men!”

22
“He can’t have left town – his horse is still here.”
“Watch your back. Zeb saw him draw against young Billy. Said he ain’t never seen nothing like
it!”
“’Course we don’t know for certain THIS was him…”
“Lily, that little redheaded piece at the saloon, says he was spinning her a tale he’d ridden with
the Devil’s Hole Gang.”
“From what I saw – he’s sure mean enough!”

“What have you done, Thaddeus?” Em’s eyes widened as she watched the busy street below.
Householders were being knocked up.

“The mercantile was robbed…”

“We’re searching every building…”
“Deke found Joe knocked senseless…taken a pretty bad kick to the ribs too…”
“Looking for a fella callin’ himself Jones…”
“Who’d DO that to a man his age? Sheesh! It’s not as if Joe could put up a fight!”

“Do they mean Joe Godfrey?” Jones gasped, recalling having the old man pointed out to him as
having ‘lost the arm at Bueno Vista’.

“Thaddeus, it might not even have been you! You heard – they’re not certain.”

Jones, now buttoning his shirt, strode over to his jacket, pulled a fistful of bills from the pocket.
Their eyes met. “For pity’s sake, Em, you gotta help me!”

“I will. I can hide you. Swear I’ve not been disturbed. The Sheriff will believe me…”

“NO! I mean you gotta help me not change back! I can’t…” Jones stared at the stolen money in
his hand. “I can’t be this fella. I WON’T. I’d rather…” He stopped. Em watched him. Inside the
man a battle was going on. Jones took a deep breath and reluctantly chose the least bad option.
Or at any rate, the least bad option if he was trying to do the right thing. “I’ll give myself up – go
down unarmed. Say I broke in here to hide, but realise I’m outnumbered. If I’m in a cell – it
won’t matter if I change.”

“Don’t!” She wasn’t ready to lose him! Not yet! “…I’m sure I could come up with an antidote.
Sure!”

“I could change any moment, Em. I can FEEL him. Feel him getting stronger. I can’t take the
risk.”

“But they could lock you up for – for months. Maybe years.”

Despite himself, Jones gave a wry smile. “You have no idea how many!” Again, he caught her
hand. “Listen. I have a plan. Leastways, I have half of something that could become a plan – and
I know a man who can fill in the blanks. My partner should arrive any time now. He…” Jones

23
hesitated, then decided if Em guessed, well – that was the least of his problems. “Once you’ve
come up with an – an antidote, or once all the effects have worn off, he’ll be able to break me out
of jail. Call it – a knack. His name’s Joshua Smith. My height. Dark. Black hat, silver trimmings.
Once he shows up – tell him everything. Take my gun. He’ll know if YOU have that, I trusted
you. AND, tell him to make sure it’s ME he’s breaking out, NOT ‘the other fella’. Will you do all
that, Em?”

A tiny pause before she pressed his hand in return, “Sure.”

“Thanks.” He dropped a quick kiss on her cheek and she heard his boots on the stairs and a call
of ‘Don’t shoot! I’m coming out with my hands up!”

Em turned to the mirror and raised her fingers to the place Jones’ lips had touched. Her brow
puckered. “I don’t know about ‘the other fella’ getting stronger, Thaddeus,” she breathed, “…But
you’re sure getting weaker. The man I met yesterday wouldn’t be so - gullible.” A cunning smile
lifted her flushed cheeks. The eyes glittered. Her life filled with passion for the first time, Em felt
– invincible.

---oooOOOooo---

The Sheriff shuddered at the bitter hatred darting blue fire from the eyes of his prisoner. Jones
had seemed so – so reasonable when they arrested him this morning. Now he could well believe
this was the man who had beat up harmless old Joe Godfrey. He more than half believed the
gossip – started by a couple of the saloon gals - that Thaddeus Jones was really the notorious
outlaw, Kid Curry. In any case, he believed it enough to wire for a lawman to come in from
Cheyenne

The Sheriff motioned the lean figure away from the food hatch with his gun. “All the way back,
Jones, hands flat against the wall. Deke here,” Deke was the man carrying the tray. “…Won’t be
coming any nearer until you back up. So, unless you wanna stay hungry…”

With a sneer of contempt, Jones did as he was bid. A Sheriff and Deputy both with guns trained
on him from outside a steel barred cell and a third man to set down the tray at arm’s length and
push it through the hatch. Snivelling cowards the lot of them. They were right to be frightened
though! If he ever got out…

Left alone, Jones retrieved the food from the hatch. He had to keep his strength up. Ready for
when he DID get out. Anger raged inside him at the one man he could never take revenge
against. The dumb weakling with the bleeding heart who had tossed aside his gun, raised his
hands above his head and walked into this cell. He couldn’t keep changing back into ‘him’ – he
just couldn’t!

---oooOOOooo---

Blinking awake, Jones raised his head from the thin mattress. He winced as a stiffened muscle in
his neck protested at the sleeping arrangements. Dark. Must be the middle of the night. Where

24
the Sam Hill…?

He remembered. He was in jail. Déjà vu again! Though, this time was different. He’d
volunteered to be behind bars. Trying to raise his hand for a good scratch Jones felt his arm jerk
in its socket. He was cuffed to the bedstead. Why? The Sheriff had seemed a decent enough fella.
Not one to indulge in any vindictive…

Oh!

Images floated into Jones’ mind. He had changed again. He had…

He grimaced at the recollection of the obscene sound of a breaking bone and the cruel pleasure at
hearing a squeal of pain. ‘He’ had lured an unwary young deputy close enough to grasp a wrist
through the bars.

No wonder the Sheriff had taken extra precautions. Jones didn’t hold any grudge for the bruises
he could feel either. He reckoned ‘he’ had deserved them. Still, it could have been a lot worse if
he hadn’t been locked up. Couldn’t it? He’d made the right choice turning himself in. Hadn’t he?
Sure he had. Probably.

Jones sighed. He disliked nearly everything about ‘the other fella’, but he sure wished he had
‘his’ self-confidence. Being left with even half of it would have been something.

Suddenly, Jones became aware of stealthy movement beyond the outer cell.

“Thaddeus,” hissed a familiar deep voice.

Jones closed his eyes in utter thankfulness. At last.

A familiar black hat followed the voice. A familiar pair of brown eyes were lit up by a raised oil
lamp.

“Hey…I mean, hey, Joshua,” hissed back Jones, seeing Em appear over his partner’s shoulder.
“What the Sam Hill kept you?”

The brown eyes searched the cells, checking Jones was the only prisoner.
“Oh, Em and me reckoned there was no hurry,” beamed Smith, in his normal tones. “Had to
finish supper first. I’m afraid we didn’t save you any. Still, wouldn’t want me breaking you outta
jail on an empty stomach, would you?”

A glower from Jones.

“Mister Smith cracked the safe where the Sheriff keeps the cell keys,” exulted Em. “Isn’t that
clever?”

“Not as clever as this one,” smiled back Smith, nodding at the excited schoolteacher. “She came
round to put a splint on some fella’s wrist and doped the coffee pot. AND, she says they won’t

25
even have a headache when they come round. Most civilised jailbreak I’ve ever…” He stopped.
A wary glance at Em. She must have guessed, but no need to rub it in. “Most civilised jailbreak
I’ve ever imagined. Hypothetically,” he amended. An admiring look. “I reckon you work magic
with the potions in that dispensing room, ma’am.”

The smile on Em’s lips froze for a second. Once again Jones felt a wave of déjà vu as the soft
lashes lowered and he heard, “You flatter me, Mister Smith.”

“Is it true though?” urged Jones. “Did you manage the antidote, Em?”

The lashes rose. Her eyes met his and she nodded. A small hand held out a corked bottle. “Wait,”
she pulled out the stopper. “I took a dose myself to check it worked – but maybe one drop more
to be sure.” Wicked twinkle. “You don’t want me reverting and throwing myself at Mister Smith
here, do you?”

“Well, ma-am…” began the dimpled one, as Em took a ladylike sip.

“Don’t!” warned Jones, cutting off his partner before any silver tonguing could join the dimples.
He took the bottle from Em. “You’re sure this works?”

“You’ll know it works as soon as you taste it,” she assured him.

Jones drank. His eyes widened. Yes! YES! He could feel it. ‘The other fella’ was gone forever.
He met Em’s watching gaze. She gave him a tiny nod, a flash of justified pride in those clever
eyes.

His partner beamed through the bars. “Now I’m supposed to check its really YOU. That really
you in there, Thaddeus?”

“You know it is! Get me outta here!”

“Looks ugly enough,” mused Smith, teasingly. “Sounds grumpy enough. Still – maybe we
should wait. See how grumpy he gets if we make him miss breakfast.”

“It’s ME! If you don’t get me outta here – I’ll – I’ll flatten ya!”

His partner, still grinning, had already undone the cell door and had knelt to pick the cuffs.

“Whatever you put in that potion, ma’am – couldn’t you have added a little something to keep
him civil?” The cuffs clicked open. Jones stretched his cramped shoulder and rubbed his wrist.
“D’you hear that! Not a word of thanks. Do you reckon a fella this ornery deserves his gun
back?” joshed Smith. “Nah! Neither do I. The thing is ma’am, he’ll only complain he walks with
a limp if we hold onto it.”

“Horses ready?” grunted Jones, buckling on the well-worn gun belt and, after checking the
chamber, slipping the spotlessly clean colt into its holster.

26
“Yup.”

The three of them slipped past the unconscious lawmen and, after checking the town was
deserted, into the silence of the small-hours streets. Two tethered horses whickered a soft
greeting.

Em met Jones’ eyes, gave a tight little smile. “Time to say goodbye.”

“I guess so.” Jones turned, gun leaping into his hand. “Goodbye, partner.” A cruel grin answered
Smith’s incredulous stare. “Once thoroughly respectable Miss Stevenson has struck it rich
claiming the ten thousand on your head, we’ll head off to a new life, South of the Border. Just
like we planned yesterday.” His lip lifted in contempt. “You’re getting old as well as soft,” he
crowed, as six bullets, so rapid they seemed a single shot, ripped through the lean body and sent
it first spinning, then crumpling into the dusty gutter. “You never used to be so easy to bluff!”

Jones, turned over the corpse of the man he now recognised as nothing more than a useless, weak
burden with the toe of his boot, then hefted it across his saddlebow.
He didn’t need him! He didn’t need anyone! He only needed…
Jones threw a look of triumph at Em, already mounted on Smith’s horse.
He only needed her. Her and the potion to keep ‘the other fella’ quiet forever.

They rode out together before the first of the roused townsfolk made it down to the street. Both -
invincible.

---oooOOOooo---

“Oh! That one was sad too! POOR Mister Jones! Poor, poor Thaddeus.”
“Poor Mister Smith too! He got the worst of it!”
“What a co-incidence! The girl in this one was called Em too!”
“Scarcely a girl! Old enough to know better! The hussy!”
“Oh! I felt sorry for her. After all…” Flutter, flutter. “Mister Jones is SO attractive.” “Well.
Maybe I can understand the temptation.”
“And Thaddeus was naughty AGAIN!”
“BAD boy!” Giggle. Hand squeeze.
“Only because of the potion.”
“Oh!” Playful tap of a sun-kissed cheek with a half-embroidered lily. “Men will be men, potion
or no potion!”
“I didn’t think it was so sad as the first one.”
“It was a bit LIKE the first one – when you think about it.”
“Well, the end result was sure the same.”
Sympathetic tutting. Both partners found their hands receiving a kindly squeeze.

The enthusiastic burst of chatter died away. Silence.

Blue Ribbons selected a new skein of silk and began to wind it. Lace-Trim-Blouse tidily rolled a

27
tape measure. Flowered-Bonnet finished a final French knot in the centre of a bunch of daisies
and snipped off her thread. Three cheerful faces beamed benevolence at the ex-outlaws in the
rosy light of the oil lamps.

Neither Heyes nor Curry could muster a smile in return. Kid merely looked stunned. He had not
merely listened to Sable-Furs words, she had planted them inside him like memories. He could
see – SEE – his bullets ripping the life from Heyes. He could feel the guilt like a pain. He was
telling himself, over and over, ‘It never happened. Heyes is right here. He’s fine. We’re both fine.
It was ONLY a story. It could never happen.’ At that last thought, something made him turn to
meet Sable-Furs eyes. Not a word passed her lips, but Kid had no doubt she read his mind as
easily as the cards in her hands. He had no doubt of her silent response. ‘Yes, it could.’ Nor…
Kid gulped. Nor had he any doubt he believed in Sable-Furs’ prophecies more than in his own
attempts to hold on to comforting scepticism.

Meanwhile, Heyes, also more affected than he would care to admit by the second story was
watching the ladies as they returned to their needlework. There was something he was trying to
remember …Something he’d read when he was a boy…Something…Nah! It wouldn’t come.
Heyes gave up searching his memory for the present.

“Poor boys,” repeated Flowered-Bonnet. “Such a lot of trouble ahead.”

“You know what they say – third time lucky!” urged Blue-Ribbons.

On cue, Sable-Furs held out the deck.

“Seems to me, ma’am,” said Heyes, still civil, though with an edge to his voice as he answered
Blue-Ribbons, “…Your friends were in the right of it when they said both futures seemed to have
the same end result. I’m not sure I want to hear a third variation on a theme.”

Unphased by the echo of the dangerous tone that once made the hardened outlaws in the Devil’s
Hole Gang nervous, Blue-Ribbons touched Heyes’ hand and smiled, “Poor Mister Smith. Are
you ALWAYS this unlucky with cards?”

“Not as a general rule, ma’am.” A tiny pause. “Not with a straight deck.”

A fleeting flash of sardonic laughter from of Sable-Furs. “Feel free, Mister Smith.”

Heyes hesitated a moment then took the offered cards. He was not familiar with the tarot, but, a
quick check confirmed this was not a deck stacked with more than it’s share of ill omens. A
single instance of each image. A fair number seeming at first glance to signify good fortune. Of
course, Sable-Furs could interpret them any way she chose…

“What would this mean?” asked Heyes, holding up a card glinting with shining gold.

“The Chariot? Perhaps a battle or some difficult task ahead. Perhaps simply endeavour, honest
hard work.”

28
“Uh huh? And this?”

“That is The Moon, Mister Smith.”

“I can see that, ma’am. What does it mean?”

“Dreams – good or bad.” A tiny pause, just like Heyes had left earlier. “Or, it could just be ‘The
Moon’.”

“Uh huh?” The tapered fingers shuffled the deck. He stopped, pursed his lips. “Once more,” he
decided.

‘Once more,’ Sable-Furs agreed with an inclination of the head. The cards clicked together.

The deck passed back from Heyes to the teller of fortunes. She held it between him and Kid. And
waited.

It was Kid who reached out. Anything – Anything at all would be better than replaying the scene
of Heyes dying at his hand, over and over.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

“The Chariot. The Moon.” A pair of mocking dark eyes met those of Heyes for a second before
lowering again. “The High Priestess. I see two men contemplating honest, hard work.”

The Coyote Hunt…

I see two men contemplating honest, hard work.

“There’s nothing wrong with honest, hard work,” urged Smith.

“No,” grunted his blond partner. “I just thought we preferred honest, easy work.”

“Doesn’t usually pay so well.”

Jones gave an acknowledging shrug. There was a lot of truth in there. The advertisement circled
by his partner offered $30 a day and a possible $1,000 bonus. But…

“Jobs pay this well for a reason. Remember that time with the mountain lions at the Carlson
place.”

“$500 per cat,” sighed Smith, nostalgically.

“You nearly became a cat’s supper!”

29
“Yes but THIS job…” A tapered finger tapped the newspaper, “ISN’T hunting down mountain
lions taking calves in cattle country.”

“No. It’s huntin’ down coyotes takin’ lambs in sheep country.”

“That’s what I’m saying – completely different.”

The blue eyes shot an incredulous look at the persuasive, dimpled face.

“Coyotes are nothing like the size of lions. You not going to tell me you’re frightened of a…a
couple of mangy little wild dogs?”

“Nope. I’m gonna tell you I’ve a healthy respect for up to a dozen medium to large wild dogs
wily enough to make up for lack of size by huntin’ in pairs.” Two steaming plates were delivered
by a smiling waitress. Jones wrapped himself around a forkful of ham and eggs. And another. His
mood lifted. “The thing is,” he went on, indistinctly, “I’ve been thinking…”

“Forgetting our arrangement again, huh?”

“You’re right about coyotes not being up there with cougars in the predator stakes, so – why the
$30 a day? Why aren’t the young bucks at…” he checked the small print, “Moonshine – fetching
out their rifles and huntin’ down their own mangy coyotes? And what the Sam Hill is this
possible $1,000 bonus for? How many sheep is this dang pack taking? It’s gonna be one easy job
shootin’ ‘em if its $1.000 worth! They must be fat as …as…” Jones unwonted eloquence ran out.
He filled the simile gap with another mouthful of ham and eggs and chewed questioningly at his
partner.

A dimpled face mused. Smith had to admit they were all good points. He sighed, “You don’t
wanna take the job?”

“Nope. But…” Another forkful of ham and eggs went west. Or, should that be south? “I know
you’ll talk me into it – so, I fold.” Rueful lift of an eyebrow above a half-resigned, half-joshing
blue eye. “What’s the worst that can happen?”

---oooOOOooo---

A couple of days later…

The partners exchanged a wary glance and resisted the urge to let their eyes drift to a pair of all
too familiar wanted posters on the opposite wall. Would they ever get used to walking
voluntarily into a Sheriff’s office? However, both Smith and Jones were becoming aware that, of
the five men present, they were by far the least nervous. The grizzled lawman shifted in his seat
and failed to meet the partners’ eyes. Beside him, the portlier of the two prosperous looking
sheep farmers was clearing his throat and, despite talking at great length, singularly failing to
give a straight answer to Smith’s question about why bringing in one particular coyote would
earn a bonus of $1,000.

30
Smith’s deep voice cut through the farmer’s rambling. “What is it you’re not telling us, Mister
Bauer? Mister Jones and me sure aren’t complaining about being offered $30 a day and no one
ever heard us complain about the chance to get our hands on $1,000…”

“So long as it’s law abiding, like,” put in Jones.

“But, if we’re to do a good job for you and Mister Thwaite, we need to know what we’re up
against. This IS just a coyote out there?”

An exchange of glances between the two farmers.

“No one’s ever seen it and li…” The skinny Mister Thwaite, who had scarcely taken his eyes off
the partners, received a warning nudge. “No one’s ever seen it,” he repeated, darting an
apologetic glance at his neighbour. “But we’ve all heard its howl…”

An involuntary shudder ran over the man, he stopped. Smith noted the Sheriff’s adam’s apple
bob, convulsively.

“It’s a coyote alright. Just big an’ mean an’ too dang clever to let itself get shot yet,” said Bauer,
mustering a would-be-confident tone. “AND, we’re both tired of finding dead sheep in the
morning and having our men all spooked up and refusing to stand guard at night!” He tried to
hold Smith’s searching gaze. He failed.

“D’you mind if my partner and I talk it over?” asked Smith.

“Feel free,” grunted the Sheriff. “This is,” Again, he shifted in his chair. “…No one’s telling you
any lies here, Mister Smith. This is a dangerous job – the pay reflects that. But, if you and your
partner turn it down – you leave Moonshine with no hard feelings.”

The partners pushed back their chairs, rose and strode outside to consult.

“Whaddya think?” asked Jones.

“They may not be lying – but they’re sure not telling us everything,” frowned Smith. “Still, it
doesn’t feel like any kind of ‘bounty hunt’ lure. And, it doesn’t feel like we’re going to be tricked
into anything …shady. Not crooked shady anyhow.”

“Uh huh.”

“They want fellas who are real good trackers and real good with a gun - and they’re prepared to
pay for the best. That bit’s true.”

“Uh huh.”

“This is a nice quiet town, no one’s likely to know us. I guess I’d rather be up against a pack of

31
coyotes than a posse. If we don’t get the pack leader – we still get $30 a day so long as they’re
prepared to let us keep trying.”

“Uh huh,” Jones nod at that was thoughtful. There was a lot of truth in there.

“What do YOU think?”

A long pause. “I think,” Jones admitted, “…We’ve two dollars and fifteen cents between us and a
long spell of hungry days and cold nights in front of us if we DON’T take the job.”

“Uh huh.”

In unison the partners turned on their heels and strode back into the Sheriff’s office. Once again,
Thwaite’s eyes fixed on them, searchingly.

“Mister Bauer, Mister Thwaite, you got yourself two coyote hunters,” beamed Smith. “We’ll start
tonight – and we’ll take our first day’s pay in advance.”

A pause.

“That would be now,” clarified Smith.

“Oh!” Digging in his pocket, Bauer drew out $30 and pushed it over the desk. “Ride over to my
place and I’ll show you where the last mauled sheep was…”

“Each,” interrupted Smith, still smiling.

“Huh?”

“Our terms are thirty dollars a day, EACH,” chimed in Jones, civil but firm.

Bauer opened his mouth to argue, took another look at the steady blue eyes facing him and
changed his mind. Another $30 was produced.

“Jones and me are going to go get a hot bath, a hot meal, a cold, cold beer and somewhere to rest
up – not necessarily in that order,” said Smith, folding the money away into his vest. “Don’t
worry Mister Bauer, we’ll be over at your place this afternoon for you to show us around – and
back again at dusk.”

---oooOOOooo---

Back out in the street Smith nodded over at the saloon. “I’m thinking we start with a cold beer.”

“Sounds good,” concurred Jones.

“AND I’m thinking a little saloon gossip might fill in some of the blanks left by our new

32
employers.”

“Uh huh?” Jones glanced up at the name of the saloon with its accompanying lurid artwork. “The
Slaughtered Lamb,” he read. The partners exchanged a glance. “Cheerful, huh?”

As the batwing doors swung shut behind them, a dozen or so customers swivelled to stare at the
new arrivals. The hum of conversation halted, the music from a tinny old piano fell silent. Even
the glass polishing cloth in the bartender’s hand froze into stillness.

“I’m guessing they don’t see many strangers,” murmured Smith, under his breath. Out loud, he
added, “Howdy fellas. “

No answer. Even the affable Smith was finding it hard to keep smiling faced by all these grim,
guarded faces.

“Two beers, please.”

They were served in silence.

“My partner and me – we’ve just taken a job with Mister Bauer – you know him?” Smith asked,
chattily.

“Uh huh,” grunted the bartender, warily.

“We hear he – and some of the rest of you – are having problems with a coyote pack. He’s hired
us to hunt ‘em down.”

A definite shudder ran around the room. Several men drained their glasses and, without a word,
left the saloon.

“I guessed as much,” said the bartender. “You look pretty much like the pair he hired last month
– and the month before that.” His eyes ran over them. “Maybe a mite more expensive,” he
admitted.

“What happened to them?” asked Jones.

A long pause. The bartender returned to glass polishing. “Couldn’t say. I mind my own business.
We all do here. So should you. Get back to where you came from. Leave Moonshine.”

An old timer sitting at a corner table spoke up. “Frank’s givin’ you fellas good advice there. No
good can come of messin’ with,” the cracked voice shook, he drained his whiskey glass, “…The
Beast!”

Holding out a couple of dollars, Smith nodded at a bottle of ‘the good stuff’. “And three glasses.
One for our new friend over there.”

33
The bartender’s gaze flicked to the old-timer. “You don’t want to pay too much attention to
anything Crazy Pete says. He’s…” A finger tapped on the side of his head indicatively. “And
that’s aside from the…” A wrist motion mimed drinking.

One close look at Crazy Pete’s bleary eyes was enough to convince the partners that the second
half at least of the bartender’s warning was true enough.

Smith poured a whiskey for the old man. It was disposed of in a single swallow.

“Tell us about – the beast,” he prompted. A thirsty gaze rested on the bottle. Smith poured, but
kept his hand on the glass.

“It’s huge! HUGE! Near on six foot from paw to haunch! Fangs like knives! Claws like razors!”
He pulled the glass from Smith’s grasp and drank.

“You’ve seen it?” checked Jones.

“No. But, Red-Eye Bob saw it. We’d been drinking hooch out back of Thwaite’s place. I was
asleep, but HE saw it!” Another sustaining shot of whiskey was taken. “He told me. Ten foot tall
and breathing fire!”

“Uh huh?” grunted Jones, exchanging a cynical glance with his partner and losing interest. He
turned back to the bartender. “We’re going to be looking for a room. Where’s the best place?”

“There’s no hotel in town. No one visits. I told you – we mind our own business here!”

“Yup, you told us.”

The bartender’s eyes fell, faced with the blue stare. “Widow Baskerville – the white house at the
end of Main Street – she sometimes takes in lodgers. Nice lady. Fine cook. You could ask there.”

“Don’t tangle with the Beast!” wailed Crazy Pete, suddenly distressed. “The Beast likes ‘em
young and strong – and fair!” A gnarled finger pointed at Jones. “Like YOU!”

“Uh huh?” Smith pursed his lips and examined his partner. “I guess there’s no accounting for
taste.”

---oooOOOooo---

Later that day, around 5pm (early supper)…

“More potatoes, Mister Jones?” giggled ten-year old Mary. “I mashed them!”

“Let me serve you with carrots, Mister Smith,” offered eleven-year old Rebecca. “I cooked
these.” A triumphant glance was cast at her young sister. “They’re glazed with lemon and
honey.”

34
“I sliced the green beans!” countered Mary.

“I helped roll the pastry for the mutton pie!”

“What do you like best, Mister Jones, Mister Smith?” Two sets of pretty hazel eyes fixed,
questioningly on the two handsome supper guests.

“Now, now girls!” cautioned their mother. “Let our guests eat. More lemonade, Mister Smith?”

Smith nodded at Mrs. Baskerville. “Thank you, ma’am,” he managed through a mouthful of
mutton as his glass was filled.

“I was only asking which part of supper Mister Jones and Mister Smith liked best,” protested
Mary.

“It’s the best meal I’ve eaten in years – and every ingredient played its part in the perfection of
the whole,” Smith smiled at her. “My compliments – and undying admiration – to ALL the
cooks.”

Mary and her sister both beamed. So did their mother. “I must say it’s a pleasure to have men to
cater for again,” she told the partners. “Especially when they bring such fine manners AND…”
She scooped another helping of potatoes onto Jones’ emptying plate. “Such healthy appetites.”

“The pleasure’s ours ma’am” smiled back Jones. He added a touch of boyish twinkle. Mrs.
Baskerville might not be in the first flush of youth, but she was very easy on the eye. He took
another look at the flushed and kindly face above the snowy white neck frill. Fine hazel eyes
sparkled back at him. Yup. A very handsome woman.

“Why don’t you two go fetch the cake and the dessert plates?” Mrs. Baskerville suggested to
Mary and Rebecca. Casting giggling glances back at the two handsome strangers, the girls
scampered off in the direction of the kitchen.

“Bright girls, your daughters,” remarked Smith. “You must be very proud, Mrs. Baskerville.”

“I am. I’d do anything for them. What mother wouldn’t do anything she could for her children?
But, please – call me Em. ‘Baskerville’ is such a mouthful. Somehow hearing ‘Mrs. Baskerville’
always makes me feel – old!”

“Well, we can’t have that, ma’am,” charmed Jones. “Not when it’s so far from the truth. Em it is.
And,” he indicated his partner, “…Joshua and I’m Thaddeus. Hey!” She had moved to replenish
the logs on the fire. “Let me lift that, ma’am – I mean Em.”

“You’re so sweet,” she beamed approvingly at him. “I could eat you up!” The smile took in his
dark-eyed partner. “Both of you!” She moved to the door, “I’d better go see what the girls are up
to and fetch you some coffee.”

35
“This sure beats the welcome in the saloon, huh?” smiled Smith, once the door had closed behind
her. Involuntarily, he picked up one of the silver candlesticks proudly decorating the table and
checked the hallmark. Nice.

“I dunno,” the blond head shook slowly. “I got me a real bad feeling about this place.”

“HUH?”

“Look over there – in the corner. A guitar.”

“So?”

“Two young girls who keep staring at us as if they’re hungry and we’re made of candy. A guitar.
What does that remind you of? I don’t want a repeat of what happened with the Jordans.”

“You think we might hear a knock on the door and find the Sheriff about to take us in? Is that
what’s worrying you?”

“Nope. I’m worrying before we set out on this dang coyote hunt, you might sing.”

Smith gave his partner ‘the look’.

Em Baskerville bustled back in, carrying a coffee pot, as the exchange finished.

“Oh that coyote hunt!” she sighed. “I wish you weren’t in Moonshine because of Mister Bauer’s
advertisement!”

The partners exchanged a glance.

“Why do you wish that, ma’am?” asked Smith.

“Because…” She stopped, threw a wary glance in the direction of the kitchen and closed the
door before carrying on. “Because it’s so dangerous,” she said, in a low voice. “I’d hate anything
to happen to you. But, please – don’t talk about it in front of the girls. I don’t like them
frightened.”

“Not a problem, Em,” agreed Smith. “But, surely you don’t believe these stories about some
giant Beast? We went over the land Mister Bauer’s been losing sheep from - no traces. Nothing.”

“And Joshua here sold himself to Bauer as a former champeen tracker of all Southern Utah!”
backed up Jones, with a teasing glint at his partner.

“Well,” a rather shame-faced shrug, from Em. “I take what I hear with a pinch of salt. But what
with all the men Mister Bauer hires fleeing the town – and before that Reverend Green…”

36
“What happened to Reverend Green?” asked Jones, wide-eyed.

“He was determined to show that all this talk of a Beast was nothing but superstitious nonsense!
He told his whole congregation he meant to spend the night out in the open. In the spot where the
howling had last been heard…A man of principle. A brave man.”

A pause.

“And…” prompted Jones.

“He was found the next morning. Dead. Not a mark on his body but…”

“But…?” this time it was Smith urging her on.

“The doctor who examined him said he could hardly recognise his old friend. Such was the facial
distortion – it was almost beyond belief. He said he’d never seen an expression of such fear, such
utter terror. He said in his opinion, the Reverend had died of sheer fright.” A pause. “And then,
there was the footprint next to the body…”

“Whose footprint, ma’am?” asked Jones.

She raised earnest eyes to his face. “It was the footprint, Mister Jones, of a gigantic hound.”

---oooOOOooo---

Still the same day – just – around midnight…

Smith watched his partner check, AGAIN, the breach of both his rifles, cock them, set them aside
and draw his sixgun. Jones checked each chamber, spun the cylinder and reholstered the weapon.
He lowered the gunbelt, a shade more, a fraction higher and executed one experimental fast
draw. He adjusted the belt – and, once more, let the gun leap into his hand.

From his seat on a convenient flat boulder, Smith drew a deep, patient breath. He rolled his eyes.

Jones was, again, checking the rifles. “You just keep right on smilin’,” he grunted. “This boy’s
going to be ready.”

“For what? After all that talk – we went all over this piece of ground this afternoon, never found
so much as a trace of coyotes. And now…” Smith indicated the peaceful flocks. “Nothing. I’ve
seen more traces of coyotes in the middle of ‘Frisco than here.”

“They’re out there,” frowned Jones. “I can…feel ‘em – watching. Like knowing a posse’s on our
trail.”

Smith shrugged, but did not argue with Jones’ instinct. “At least we’re only a day away from the

37
full moon,” he said, indicating the waxing white sphere above. “If they come near – we’ll have
plenty of light to aim by.” A pause. “If,” he repeated with a smile. “I reckon we let ourselves get
spooked with all that talk of…”

Aaaaoooooowwwwwllll!

The long, low howl – indescribably sad – swept over the dark prairie beyond Bauer’s land. It
filled the whole air and yet, the partners could not say from where it had come. From a dull
murmur, it swelled into a deep roar, then sank back into a melancholy throb.

Aaaaoooooowwwwwllll!

The two tethered horses whickered and pawed the ground in fear, nostrils dilating and breath
fogging in the chill night. The sheep gave out soft ‘mmmmaaas’ of alarm and crowded together,
the woolly huddle shifting first one way, then another to escape the danger. But, where was it…?

Aaaaoooooowwwwwllll!

Smith and Jones felt a chill of terror clutch their hearts and the hairs rise, prickling, on the napes
of their necks. They were not men easily frightened, but… The sound was not like anything they
had heard before. It was uncanny. It was…It was the sound of pure evil, seeking its prey.

They both had rifles raised and were circling, a foot or so apart, back to back, scanning the
moonlit scene. Nothing. Where was it coming from? Where…

Then, from nowhere, it sprang.

“Sheesh! What the @**@ is that?” yelled Smith, as the dreadful shape exploded from the
shadows and flew past him. It was an enormous coyote, but not such a beast as mortal eyes had
ever seen. Its eyes glowed like fire. Its muzzle and hackles were outlined, huge and coal black
against the silver moon.

Smith and Jones both fired as the hellish monster leapt into the flock and tore the throat from a
sheep with a single snap of its iron jaws.

They fired.

A second sheep was flung into the air in a splatter of spraying blood as the fiendish shape lashed
out with talons glittering in the eerie shimmer of moonlight.

They fired.

Another throat was ripped asunder and the partners shuddered at the almost human screech of
pain from the dying animal as her heart was devoured in a single demonic swallow. Her
neighbour joined her, scarlet blood soaking into the soft, white fleece.

38
They fired.

Jones tossed his second spent rifle aside and drew his colt, the movement nearly as swift as the
creature’s first leap. The six shots were so fast they seemed a single bullet burying itself between
the fiend’s burning eyes.

Aaaaoooooowwwwwllll!

This time it was a howl of mocking triumph as the savage spectre, more appalling, more hellish
than anything conjured by the wildest nightmare, caught up a final victim in its jaws and
bounded – uninjured – into the night.

---oooOOOooo---

“I tell you, we DIDN’T miss!” Smith insisted, as the partners stood amidst the bloody carnage
and faced an – understandably – angry Mister Bauer in the light of early dawn. “We hit it! Hit it
at point blank range!”

“You didn’t fall asleep – wake up to find it killing my stock? Or run for cover the minute it
appeared?”

“NO! I’m telling you. We stood our ground and pumped lead into the dang thing! It – it wouldn’t
die!”

“Hmm.”

“Are you calling us liars?” asked Jones, a dangerous look in his blue eyes.

“Nope,” said Bauer. “I’m calling you two fellas who took sixty dollars of my money and left me
with five dead sheep on your watch.”

Jones answering scowl was more at the truth of the farmer’s words than at the man himself.

“I guess now,” sighed Mister Thwaite, who had joined his neighbour, eager to see if the new
hires had succeeded. “You won’t want to earn another sixty dollars standing guard and trying
again tonight?”

“Pfftt!” exclaimed Smith. “It’d take more than sixty dollars to make us face that – that THING
again.”

“You’ll want to ride out of town, huh?” continued the quiet voice of Mister Thwaite. “Of course,
like I was explaining to Bauer yesterday, once we left the Sheriff’s office, IF the men who’d
applied for the job were – oh, say, notorious outlaws with a $20,000 price on their heads – THEN
we’d have some hold over them. IF, just hypothetically, I recognised them from a train robbery
back in ’79 in Wyoming, THEN they wouldn’t be able to give up and ride out of town. They’d
HAVE to stay. Unless they wanted me to share my memories with the Sheriff as well as him.”

39
“’Course – us managing to hire two notorious outlaws is not real likely,” chipped in Bauer.
“What are the odds of getting the Leader of the Devil’s Hole gang and the fastest gun in the
West? It’s much more likely that we’d hire two real law-abiding fellas like yourselves, huh?”

A pause. Smith and Jones exchanged a glance.

“I’m a touch deaf in this ear,” smiled the portly sheep farmer, tapping the right side of his head.
“What was that you were saying to Thwaite here about earning another sixty dollars?”

“I said,” decided Smith, reluctantly, “…It’d take more than JUST sixty dollars to make us face
that again. It’d take our professional pride. The pride that means we never leave a job unfinished.
The pride that gives us grit – determination. Smith and Jones are not the kind of men who give
up when the going gets tough! No, sir! Sometimes,” the silver-tongued one was getting into his
stride now, “a man’s gotta do what a man’s…”

“Good,” interrupted Bauer, displaying a sadly cavalier attitude to the clichés of the old west.
Sixty dollars were handed over. “We’ll see you back here at nightfall. Good luck.” The two
farmers strode away.

Brown eyes met blue. A pause.

“You saw that - that THING last night!” said Jones. “Dealing with that is going to take more than
grit and determination. It’s going to take a plan of genius.”

“Uh huh.” Smith, pushed back his hat and dropped his hands to his slim hips. A long pause.

Jones laid a trusting hand on his partner’s drooping shoulder. “As soon as you come up with one
– come tell me. I’m gonna go get some breakfast.”

---oooOOOooo---

“You’re not going back tonight?”

“We are, ma’am,” Smith told Em, as she served him with more pancakes.

“Why?”

A glance was exchanged.

“I think it was our professional pride,” offered Jones. “Something about ‘grit’ and a man having
to do what a man has to do.”

“Did you see the Beast?” asked Mary.

“I bet you were scared!” chipped in Rebecca. “Everyone is scared of the Beast!”

40
Smith cast a wary glance at the girls’ mother, remembering she did not want them frightened.
“Oh, we might have seen something padding around out there, but Mister Jones and I don’t get
scared. We know there’s nothing to be scared of.”

“Its time you girls left for school. You’ll be late,” their mother said, firmly.

Once the front door had shut behind her daughters, Em Baskerville turned to the partners,
anxiety stamped on every feature.

“You saw the Beast?”

“Uh huh.”

“And – you didn’t kill it?”

“We sure tried, Em,” sighed Jones. “Our bullets simply – went through the thing.”

“Tonight will be worse!” she blurted, “it’s…” Em clapped a hand over her mouth and shook her
head, the hazel eyes took on a frightened expression.

“It’s what, Em?” asked Smith. “Why will tonight be worse?”

She hung her head. “If I tell you, you won’t believe me. You’ll just think I’m some dumb woman
letting her imagination run away with her.”

“Em,” said Jones, gently. “After what we saw last night – we’re not likely to be dismissing
anything as ‘just imagination’. Try us.”

“I told you the other men Bauer hired fled the town. Most did. But two – two simply
disappeared. One in September, One last month – around Halloween. They – Bauer and Thwaite
– hushed it up, but all the rumours say…” Em twisted her snowy apron in her hands.

“Go on,” urged Smith.

“The Beast took them. At certain times, it has a taste for human flesh. Poor Billy Harper. He was
such a nice young man. Fair curls just like my late husband.” A fond glance at Jones. “Put me in
mind a little of you, Thaddeus.” Her voice filled with distress. “And tonight it’s…”

“It’s …what?”

“It’s the full moon! You’ll think I’m foolish, but I’ve noticed that they all – Reverend Green, the
tow-headed man back in September, poor Billy Harper – they all went on a night when the moon
was full. I’m sure…the Beast is really a … a…”

“Are you thinking about…” Smith hardly liked to say it. “Werewolves? Or, I guess in this case

41
Were ‘prairie wolves’.”

Em hung her head, but nodded. “I know it’s hard to accept – but it would explain the size and the
– the cleverness. It’s not a coyote at all – it’s a human transformed. It has all the cunning – and
evil – of the most wicked person you could…” She broke off. Again the white apron twisted in
her nervous grasp. “I hate to think of it. It could be someone you’ve met – knowing your plans.
Licking their lips at the thought of …It could be Mister Bauer, or the Sheriff, or even poor old
Crazy Pete. How would you know? You MUST stay away from the prairie tonight.”

Her bright hazel eyes met Smith’s brown ones. “You don’t believe me, do you?”

“Frankly Em, it’s a lot to swallow,” admitted the dark haired young man. “But then, so was what
I saw last night. If there is anything in what you say…” His forehead puckered. Tapered fingers
reached out for a silver-trimmed black hat. “If you’ll excuse me ma’am – I have thinking to do.”

A moment later, Jones and Em watched a lean figure, hugging a grey coat around himself, pace
back and forth in the chill back yard.

“He’ll be at that for hours,” said Jones, knowing the signs. He pushed back his chair and stood
up. “I guess I’ll go get some rest. It’s been a long night.”

“Thaddeus.” Jones was surprised to find his hand taken between two, small feminine ones.
“Would you think I was very forward if …if…?” The sentence was not finished. Instead, he
found himself being gently kissed by a pair of soft lips. “Oh! I’ve embarrassed you – you’re
blushing - I’m sorry.” She made as if to leave.

“Hey!” Jones pulled her back and folded his arms around her. “This isn’t a blush! This is me – er
– flushing with delight.” He studied her face a moment, checking she was willing, then kissed
her back – not quite so gently.

“Didn’t you need to go upstairs to rest?” she murmured with a definite flirtatious gleam.

“I sure could do with lying down.” With a wicked twinkle, he added, “How about you?”

“Oh, Thaddeus,” Em growled throatily, emerging from a second crushing embrace breathless and
with a shining lock of hair worked loose from her bun. “You’re so…so cute. I could eat you up!”

---oooOOOooo---

‘Hours’ later…

“Thaddeus,” called Smith striding back into the house. He ran upstairs, checked their room.
Empty. Back downstairs – checked the parlour. “Thaddeus! Where the Sam Hill are you?”

The sound of boots clattering on wood brought Smith back out into the hall. His partner, gunbelt
dangling from one elbow, a hand tucking in shirt at the back was running down the stairs. His

42
expression was…Well, Smith decided, there was a dash of smug, but mainly it was just plain
happy!

“What are you looking so dang cheerful about?” he demanded.

“Nothing.”

Em appeared on the upper landing. Perfectly neat, perfectly composed but…glowing. Smith, a
sharp observer, noted that her chestnut hair was now tied up with a green ribbon. Two hours ago
at breakfast it had been pink.

“It’s a good job ONE of us keeps his mind on the job in hand,” Smith muttered, giving his
partner the ‘look’.

Jones, not one to ‘kiss and tell’, tried to wipe a little of the sappy smile off his face and assume
an air of complete innocence. This was rather spoilt by him seeing his partner’s eyes rest on a
tell-tale dangle of rosy ribbon. Jones made haste to tuck it out of sight in his pocket.

“Ma-am,” Smith called up the stairs. “I’ve a favour to ask.”

She ran down, lightly.

“I’ve decided, unbelievable as your theory is, I can’t come up with anything better. AND, I’ve
been racking my brains for anything I can remember reading about…” Smith winced at having to
say it. “Werewolves.”

“Werecoyotes,” corrected Jones.

Smith pushed back his hat and dropped his hands to his hips. “Well, there’s no point me racking
my brains over what I’ve ever read on Werecoyotes, is there? That’s nothing! At least
Werewolves sometimes turn up in dime novels trying for a taste of the gothic. Werecoyotes don’t
even exist! I mean they exist even less than non-existent Werewolves!”

Jones looked rather hurt at the scathing tone of his partner. “No need to get proddy.”

“You were going to ask me a favour, Joshua,” intervened Em, peaceably.

“Would you sell us your silver candlesticks?”

“Oh! They were a wedding…” She stopped. Light dawned. “You mean to make bullets. Silver
bullets, the only thing that can kill a werewolf. You’re assuming they will work the same on the
Beast,” she said, quietly. A sudden flash of admiration from the hazel eyes. “You ARE clever,
Joshua.” A pause. A deep breath. “You can have them. No charge.”

“We’ll buy you something just as pretty if we get the bonus,” said Jones, squeezing her shoulder,
gratefully.

43
“I want to protect my girls. Don’t tell them about silver bullets, they’ll be frightened for…” Em
pressed her handkerchief to her lips, then controlled herself. “For you.”

“We won’t say a word,” Jones reassured her. Touching her hand, he added, “They’re lucky to
have a mother like you, Em.”

“Oh no,” she demurred. “What mother wouldn’t do anything she could – for her children?”

---oooOOOooo---

“How many bullets did you manage?” asked Em, bringing coffee out to the barn.

Jones, flushed from working over the hot brazier, looked up. “Twelve.” Looking down at the
shining fruits of his afternoon labours, he added. “Six each.”

A pause.

“Nah,” said Smith. “I did my share coming up with the idea. I reckon I’ll leave the shooting to
you. You take them all.”

Their eyes met. A mute conversation. Jones nodded. His partner’s utter faith in his marksmanship
was understood, but, to leave himself unarmed in the face of that - that thing they’d seen last
night, displayed a trust which was…

“I always did end up doing the hard work,” Jones grunted, gruffly, turning away so neither would
be embarrassed by a sudden moistness in his eyes.

---oooOOOooo---

Around midnight…

“We gotta stop meeting like this,” joshed Smith, blowing on his hands to warm them and
stomping his booted feet.

“Uh huh.”

Pause.

“Do you reckon it’s your birthday yet?” Smith checked his pocket watch. “Yup. Midnight. Happy
Birthday, partner.”

“Uh huh.”

“Thirty! We’ll have to change your nickname, huh? You’re getting old…”

44
“Still two dang years younger’n you!”

Smith blinked. Sheesh! Talk about sensitive! “No need to get proddy,” he remarked.

Pause.

“It’s colder’n last night,” observed Smith. He glanced up at the moon, a perfect sphere overhead.
“Brighter too. We should see it fine. No problem you getting a clean shot.”

“Uh huh.”

“The sheep seem kinda jittery.”

“They ain’t the only ones!” exploded Jones. “Will you shut the Sam Hill up and stop jigging
around! I’m tryin’ to listen.”

“Sorry.” Pause. “You see, when I’m nervous I tend to talk.” Pause. “Always been that way. Some
folks go quiet, me – I start talkin’…”

“For Pete’s sake! Will you…”

Jones was silenced by a raised hand from his partner and a suddenly arrested expression in those
dark eyes. What had Smith heard? He strained every nerve to listen. Nothing but the low sounds
of the flock and a cold snort from his horse. Silence. Then…

Aaaaoooooowwwwwllll!

Their blood ran cold at the sound. How could an animal howl convey such – such wicked
malevolence? This was no dumb beast. Em must be right, MUST be – this was evil, evil with a
human intelligence behind it.

Aaaaoooooowwwwwllll!

Jones, gun in hand, steadied himself, boots planted firmly a foot apart. His blue eyes narrowed,
dangerously. He found the inner calm he always managed to summon in a stand-off. Let the
Beast come! He was ready.

The black shape exploded from nowhere. Blotting out the moon with its massive raised hackles.
Eyes darting tawny hell fire. Fangs glinting between the snarling black lips. Fresh blood, still
smoking with ripped life, dripped from its huge, savage jaws.

With the practice of years, Jones fired with a swiftness incredible as that of the Beast leaping
toward him. His aim never faltered. Six bullets buried themselves in the very heart of the Fiend.

Aaaaoooooowwwwwllll! Contempt dripped from the lips of the Monster as, unhurt by Jones
bullets, still it came.

45
Stunned, but acting with instincts honed to perfection, Jones swept Smith’s loaned sixgun from
his belt and fired. Dead centre! A flawless hit. Still the Beast howled its derision. A razon taloned
paw slashed at Jones’ chest. He smelt the stench of the creature’s death tainted breath as the
gaping jaws closed in.

---oooOOOooo---

Jones struggled back to consciousness, shivering in fear at the nightmare filling his mind. A
waking terror gripped him.

“Heyes!” he yelled, starting up. “Where are you?”

“Shush. Shush.”

Frightened blue eyes took in his surroundings. He was back in Em’s room. In her bed. She was
bathing cuts and bruises on his chest, her lovely face lit by the glow of an oil lamp. Still night
then.

“Where’s – Joshua? Did it get him?”

“I brought Joshua back too. He’s next door – with the girls.”

“How did you…?”

“Shush.” A gentle finger pressed against his lips. A cool cloth mopped his brow.

Jones took a few deep breaths. The clock ticked. Em stroked his face, her eyes lingering on a
bloody scratch on his naked upper arm. She bent to kiss it. A soft snuffling sound came from
beyond the door. The full terror of what had happened flooded back.

“You must have been wrong, Em. The silver bullets – they didn’t work.”

“Which bullets?” she asked. “These bullets? The ones I took from your gun.” Her hand, not so
small as he had once thought, unfurled to reveal a glint of silver.

Jones stared at the bullets, then at her. Her eyes gleamed amber in the soft light. A pink tongue
licked the red lips where they had touched his wound.

“Where’s my partner?” Jones’ voice shook. He stared at the door with the snuffling sound behind
it. Leaping from the bed he tore it open. Two pairs of bright hazel eyes looked up from their
feast, blood dripping from two silky young muzzles. Sharp teeth tore another hunk of fresh meat
from…
Jones flung up an arm to shut out the sight of that familiar lean body ripped and torn and…
hollowed.

46
“I told you – I brought Joshua back for the girls,” smiled Em. “What mother wouldn’t do
anything she could for her – cubs?”

A slim hand – had the white tipped nails always been so sharp? – pulled aside the blind to let
moonlight flood the room.

“Oh Thaddeus,” Em growled, eyes burning with tawny hellfire, “You’re so cute with your mouth
hanging open like that! I could eat you up!”

---oooOOOooo---

“Oh! POOR Mister Jones! Deceived by a woman again!”

“Poor, poor Thaddeus.”
“That one had a real twist at the end!”
“Do you think so? I guessed it was her all along!”
“Oh, you’re so clever! I never suspected. Not until the last minute anyhow.”
“Poor Mister Jones. Eaten! Still, at least he had some…” Giggle. Flutter. “You know! L’amour -
first.” Snirt. Giggle. “Mister Smith never gets a girl in these stories.”
“I’ll bet he does in real life. They’re BOTH so attractive.” Flutter. Coy peep over an embroidery
frame.
“And POOR Mister Smith – dead again!”
“Well they both end up dead!”
“They always end up dead!”
“No – in the second story Mister Jones rode out.”
“No! Not the real him. The real him was gone forever. That’s the same as dead.”
“I never thought of it like that!”

The partners found their knees and arms receiving encouraging pats. Lace-Trim Blouse went so
far as to ruffle Kid’s curls.

“Poor boys. It seems however often you ask – the cards have nothing but bad news.”

“I noticed that,” remarked Heyes, wishing his voice retained some of its usual nonchalance.
Despite trying to cling on to cynical detachment, the last story had left him with a gnawing,
hollow sensation in the pit of his stomach. He looked from one sympathetic face to another, then
to the quiet Sable-Furs. Why pretend? They knew he was shaken.

Kid simply stared at the trio of images which had spelt out such a tale of horror.

Heyes cast a glance at his partner’s bleak expression. He guessed bad as it was for him to hear
three versions of his own death, it was worse for Kid. Kid was the survivor – however briefly –
each time. Each time contemplating the loss of…Well, of the last solitary piece of ‘family’ life
had left him.

The white fingers of Sable-Furs swept away the cards. The blond haired ex-outlaw raised his
gaze to meet her impassive face. He knew there was no reason to believe in this woman’s

47
prophecies. No reason. But…he did. Staring into those cool dark eyes, Kid believed. He shifted
in his seat. He didn’t want to ask but…No! He wouldn’t ask!

Relief flooded through him when Heyes, possibly reading his partner’s mind, posed the question.
“Do we get another deal?”

“Oh no!” fluted Blue-Ribbons.

“That was the last story,” chirped Lace-Trim-Blouse.
“Three is kind of…” Giggle. “The magic number you see.” Flowered-Bonnet’s voice could not
have been kinder.
“Except…”
“There is…”
“Just the ONE chance…”
“Oh yes, I forgot!”
“Silly! How could you forg…?”

“What is the one chance?” Heyes deep voice cut through the renewal of feminine fluttering.

“There is always a chance you could avoid ALL three possible paths mapped out for you,”
beamed Blue-Ribbons.

“She deals a single card,” explained Lace-Trim-Blouse.

“And that reveals the only way you might escape,” finished Flowered-Bonnet.

In the shadowed corner, the cards were shuffling from one pale hand to another. Without looking
up, Sable-Furs stopped and held out the deck.

A mute conversation. In unison the partners reached out.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

A single card turned. Sable-Furs spoke a single word, “Death.”

The silence was broken by Heyes. “Are you telling us the only way we can avoid one of the
destinies you foretold is by dying before they happen?”

“That’s right!” smiled Blue-Ribbons.

“But – all the stories were set around my thirtieth birthday,” protested Kid. “That’s only...”

“Oh yes! You’ll be gone before then,” beamed Flowered-Bonnet.

Lace-Trim-Blouse nodded cheerfully and patted his hand.

Silence.

48
“This train’s going to crash!” guessed Heyes, suddenly.

“He’s clever isn’t he?” Blue-Ribbons sounded delighted. She even clapped her hands. “That
could be it!”

“Maybe it’s crashed already,” suggested Lace-Trim-Blouse. “If you were dead already, you’d
never know!”

“Maybe you never even got on! Maybe your last plan never did work and the posse got you,”
contributed Flowered-Bonnet. “Could be you’re bleeding to death in a rocky gully and dreaming
all this!”

The partners exchanged a glance. This was – unreal!

“Who the Sam Hill are you ladies?” demanded Heyes.

“Oh, you recognise us! Think back to the stories your father told when you were a child,” urged
Blue-Ribbons. “Here I am – winding a thread. And my sister …” she indicated Lace-Trim-
Blouse, “Has the tape ready to measure the length.”

“And once it’s measured,” smiled Flowered-Bonnet, kindly, “…I’ll snip it through with my
sharp, sharp scissors.” She held them aloft, so the steel blades flashed in the lamplight.

“You are the fates,” said Heyes, quietly. “Spinning, measuring and cutting the thread of life. And,
you are familiar because you are there at our birth.”

“I KNEW you’d remember!” exulted Lace-Trim-Blouse. “You always did remember stories!
Such a clever boy!”

“And you,” Kid turned to Sable-Furs. He dreaded the answer, but he had to know. “Who are
you?”

“Surely you remember me, Jedediah? Hannibal?” The dark eyes rose and met each man’s
searching stare in turn. “We met face to face once before. Kansas. 1863. You know MY name.” A
slim finger rested on the final card.

“Yes,” replied Heyes, sadly. It had been a good life, but it was over. “We both know you.”

One sister held aloft the thread.

Another measured the length.
The glinting scissors snapped shut.

49
By Maz McCoy

It was a dark and spooky night

Kid Curry shivered and pulled the blanket around him. He was cold. No, he was freezing. The
ground was cold beneath him, the air was cold around him and all he could think about was what
he was going to do to his partner when he got his hands on him. Heyes! Kid imagined that at this
very moment his best friend…although maybe not for much longer if he got his way…was
curled up in a warm bed next to an even warmer woman. Maybe even the delightful Clarice.

When his partner had told him they had been hired to do a security job he had jumped at the
opportunity. After all everyone knew he was the security expert of the pair. Except he had not
expected to find himself sitting in a field late at night guarding…a vegetable!

It was only after he had agreed to the job, that Heyes had told him all the details. How they
would be keeping an eye on Eric Johansson’s pumpkin. How there was a competition in the town
of All Hallows to see who could grow the biggest pumpkin. Apparently every year Matthew
Peterson grew the largest pumpkin but this year Eric was sure he had the biggest, roundest,
orangest pumpkin All Hallows had ever seen and he was willing to pay well to have it protected.

So on 31st October Kid Curry sat in the pumpkin patch at the Johansson farm, guarding the
potential prize winner.

A sudden noise caught his attention. He looked over his shoulder. There was nothing there. The
clouds shifted off the moon. Kid was surrounded by the shadows of vegetation. The wind blew
causing leaves to rustle and small mammals to scurry for their homes. A cold chill made Kid
shiver. Something was moving through the field towards him. A tall shadow that appeared to
have no distinct shape drifted across the pumpkin patch, a large black cloak billowed in the
breeze. Kid swallowed and put his hand on his gun. He’d heard stories about such apparitions but
he’d been around long enough to know most were the result of too many beers at the end of a
long day.

This however was something different. He hadn’t had anything stronger than coffee and…the
shape stopped not ten feet from him. Kid remained perfectly still. His eyes focused on the black
shape. His heart was beating faster. What was this thing? What creature of the shadows was
heading for him?

Suddenly the cloak dropped to the ground. Kid followed it with his eyes as it crumpled into a
heap.

”Damn it!” Heyes snapped. “Will you give me a hand with this blanket, Kid?”

Kid Curry let out the breath he had been holding. He looked up at his partner.

50
”You okay?” Heyes asked, innocently.

”Terrific, Heyes, just terrific.” Kid got to his feet. “What are you doing here?”

”Johansson wanted the pumpkin covered up in case there was a frost. He gave me this blanket
but the wind took hold and…” Heyes had a sudden thought. “You didn’t think it was a ghost did
you?” A smile crept across his face.

”NO!” Kid lied, just a little too quickly.

By Grace R. Williams

Devil's Hole Revisited

(A remote location in Wyoming - October 31, 2008)

The sun was just beginning to sink behind the highest peaks, as Jake Smith and Travis Jones
made their way down the two track path leading to the Murtry place. They shuffled their feet as
they walked, brown, dry leaves crunching beneath their Nikes. Uncle Kurt's cabin was old, in
need of repairs and had never seen such modern conveniences as electricity or running water,
unless you count the hand pump used to fill a kitchen basin with water.

The boys loved visiting their Uncle Kurt and had been overjoyed at the suggestion they stay with
him, while their parents tended to business in Cheyenne.

Kurt Murtry, a bachelor, missing several teeth, was excited as ever to see his nephews and looked
forward to having company at the cabin.

"Ya s'pose Uncle Kurt has any costumes stashed 'round here somewheres? It's Halloween, ya
know. Don't see many houses for trick-or-treatin'." Travis kicked at a rock. "Least we could
dress up and maybe carve a pun'kin or somethin'."

Jake narrowed dark, brown eyes at his light-haired cousin, deep in thought. "Think I saw some
kind'a trunk up in the loft. C'mon! Let's check it out!"

Travis was quick to follow the lead of the older boy. Jake always had great ideas, usually
accompanied by stern consequences from their parents, but great adventures non-the-less. Travis
hoped tonight would be no different.

It was getting dark now, only a small beam of light from the full moon peeked through a dirty
window, so Travis held the Coleman lantern, while Jake brushed years of dust and cobwebs from
a wooden trunk.

51
The dry air of the loft held the lingering aroma of dust and leather, an enticing scent to two
young boys. Old furniture stood here and there around the room, covered by sheets, looking like
a variety of odd-shaped ghosts.

"Ya s'pose there's ghosts livin' up here?" asked Travis, casting a nervous glance over his shoulder.

"Nah," Jake answered, then, turned to Travis with an evil grin, “Least if there's ghosts, they ain't
livin' anymore!"

Travis gulped, his small fingers trembling as he clicked a switch on the lantern, making the room
just a little brighter. Jake softened his tone, not wanting to scare his younger cousin from their
Halloween adventure. "Uncle Kurt said his grandparents used this loft for storing winter
supplies."

Kurt Murtry hadn't ventured to the loft in years. He was sure the boys wouldn't find anything up
there that could get them into trouble. At least that's what he thought.

Jake pushed and the trunk's lid opened with a squeak. Two sets of eyes widened, one brown, one
blue, staring at the contents. Hats. Old hats. Jake carefully reached into the trunk and removed
a worn, black hat, placing it on his head. Travis followed suit, lifting a floppy, brown hat to his
own head. The boys looked at each other, smiling from ear to ear, with the best costumes two
nephews could have hoped to find in Uncle Kurt's loft.

They dug deeper, pushing past coats and vests, until they found it. An old, old picture, fraying at
the edges.

"Wonder who these two guys are?" Travis thought out loud.

"They must'a lived here in the cabin a long time ago. Maybe Uncle Kurt knows somethin' 'bout
'em," Jake answered thoughtfully.

Sitting on the floor at their uncle's feet, a crackling fire warming the cabin, the two boys listened
intently as Uncle Kurt's voice lulled them into a sleepy, trance-like state.

Uncle Kurt stared at the picture. "Yup, boys. It's them. Shared this very cabin, so the story
goes. Hannibal Heyes and Kid Curry, the two most successful outlaws in the history of the west.
Ya see boys, a long, long time ago, this place was known as Devil's Hole...

***

Jake was the first to wake, shivering with cold. They were deep in the woods. The full moon
shone brightly and the mournful cry of coyotes could be heard in the distance. How had they
gotten here? Jake's brain scrambled for a clue, but the last thing he remembered was sitting his
uncle's cabin, safe and warm.

52
He shook his cousin awake. "Travis! Wake up! Where are we?"

Travis, rubbing his arms in attempt to warm himself, gave a confused shake of his head.

Jake looked in every direction. Nothing looked familiar, he couldn't see Uncle Kurt's cabin,
couldn't see much of anything through the dark, thick woods. He almost missed it, but when he
looked again, his eyes caught glimpse of a campfire.

"C'mon!" he pulled Travis to his feet and the two walked toward the distant glow. Maybe the
campers would know the way to Uncle Kurt's place. At least the fire would warm them and keep
the howling creatures away.

They approached cautiously. One man sat near the fire. Jake was first to notice the gun belt he
wore. He caught Travis' eye and shook his head. This wasn't the kind of help they were looking
for. Quietly, the two turned to leave. They'd find Uncle Kurt's cabin some other way, when...

"Howdy, boys." Another man appeared behind them, gun in hand. "Kinda late for a coupl'a
fellas young as you to be out here on your own." The man holstered his weapon and motioned
them toward the campfire and the boys obliged him. "Heyes, looks like we got us some
company," he called to his partner who still sat near the fire.

The man called Heyes stood, "How do you do that, Kid? You always seem to know when
someone's watching us!"

"It's a gift, Heyes. One you should be thankful for."

Jake and Travis exchanged panicked glances. Heyes and Kid? Both boys took note of the hats
the men wore. The same as the one's in Uncle Kurt's trunk!

"So which one of you boys is gonna tell us how you came to be way out here on your own?"
Heyes asked.

Jake, who always took the lead, spoke up, "We're not sure, mister. We're lookin' for our Uncle
Kurt's cabin."

"Your Uncle Kurt's cabin? Kid, you know of any cabins around here?" the man looked toward
his partner who shook his head.

"It's an old place, sits back in the hills, off on its own. Uncle Kurt says it's been in the Murtry
family for years."

Now it was the men's turn to exchange a glance. Kid rubbed a hand over his face. "You boys are
Murtrys?"

"No, sir, but Kurt Murtry's our uncle. My name is Jake Smith and this here is my cousin, Travis

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Jones."

"Smith and Jones?" Kid Curry gave the boys a disbelieving look, "That the best you could come
up with? You sure you boys ain't runaways?"

"We ain't runaways!" Travis dared to speak up, "And my name IS Jones! My Pa says the world
is fulla people named Smith and Jones!" The boy finished with an icy, blue glare toward Kid,
which only lasted a moment when he saw the one being directed his way.

"And my name IS Smith! We're cousins! And like Travis says, we ain't runnin' away!" Jake
added, locking eyes with a set of eyes as dark and cunning as his own.

"Alright! Alright!" Heyes held his hands up, demanding quiet. "Whoever you boys are, you
can't go wandering around in the dark. You'll make camp with us tonight and come morning,
we'll help you find your uncle's place. Agreed?"

Two small heads nodded.

"You hungry?" Kid asked, knowing two lost boys would be, and again, the heads nodded eagerly.

As the boys devoured the meal, Kid motioned Heyes away from the fire. "What do you make of
it, Heyes? Relatives of Kyle's?"

"Not sure yet, Kid. But they shouldn't be out here alone. And if they are related to Kyle, he'll
know where to find their Uncle Kurt."

"So we're takin' 'em to the Hole?"

Heyes nodded, "At first light."

"Ya hear that?" whispered Jake. "They ARE Hannibal Heyes and Kid Curry! And they're
plannin' on takin' us to Devil's Hole!"

"But Jake, if them two really ARE Heyes and Curry, how come they're still..." Travis gulped,
"...livin'?"

***

The next morning dawned crisp and clear. The two outlaws mounted, each giving a hand up to a
miniature version of himself. Now, in the light of day, the similarities between them were
undeniable. Funny, how neither outlaw seemed to notice.

They rode through most of the day, stopping twice to rest their horses. Before remounting after
the second stop, Heyes pulled the bandana from his neck, tying it over Jake's eyes. Curry
followed suit, tying his own bandana over Travis'.

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"Wha'cha doin'?" Travis asked.

"We're almost to Devil's Hole," Kid explained. "The path is a secret. We could tell ya, but then
we'd hafta kill ya."

Although Travis couldn't see Kid Curry's face, he could hear his smile, just like his own Pa.

Just before sunset, they stopped on a hilltop overlooking the cabin.

"There she is, boys. Devil's Hole!" Heyes' voice held a wistful tone.

"It's been a long time," Kid added, his own voice sounding sad, like a man longing for home.

Jake and Travis slid from the horses before removing the cloths that covered their eyes.

"Uncle Kurt's cabin! You found it!"

Both boys turned to thank the outlaws who'd brought them here, but found themselves standing
on the hilltop alone.

***

"...an' this here cabin itself was built at the hand of Hannibal Heyes and Kid Curry," Uncle Kurt's
voice continued.

Two sleepy faces exchanged perplexed looks. They were back in the cabin, sitting by the warm
fire while Uncle Kurt told his tale. A dream? Had everything been just a dream?

"Great-Grandpa Murtry said Heyes and Curry changed their ways, tried for an amnesty till the
very end. Never got it though. Started usin' a coupl’a aliases, Smith and Jones." Uncle Kurt
chuckled softly. "Ya'd think a coupl’a men, smart as them, could’a come up with better names,
huh boys?"

Jake and Travis looked at each other, then, at the picture Jake still held. The faces of Hannibal
Heyes and Kid Curry looked back at them, like ghosts from the past. Last night was only a
dream.

"You boys best be goin' ta bed now. It's gettin' late."

Jake and Travis hugged their uncle and obeyed. The dream had seemed so real, but now, so
confusing. As each boy wordlessly prepared for bed, he emptied his pockets onto the shared
nightstand. Surprisingly, each boy’s pocket held an old, old bandana. They smiled at each other,
the dream not so confusing anymore.

Great-Grandpa Heyes and Great-Grandpa Curry - Alias, Smith and Jones.

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