They arrived at the saloon and Sweeney led Heyes inside and through to a private card room at the back, which was currently unoccupied, where they had brought Curry and given him a large whisky. Several other people hovered around looking concerned, but Heyes wasn’t really aware of any of them as he crossed to the table where his friend was seated, gazing vacantly at the tabletop, his glass of whisky barely touched.

A glass of whisky was pressed into Heyes’ own hand and hands on his shoulders pushed him down onto a chair opposite to Curry, who showed no sign of being aware he was there.

Heyes tossed the whisky back and put the empty glass on the table before leaning forward to address him.

“Thaddeus?”

Curry lifted his eyes to meet Heyes’ briefly, a look bordering on hatred in his eyes, before returning them back to the table top, and Heyes knew he felt betrayed by the manner in which he’d persuaded him to hand Jack’s body over to him.  Heyes sighed. Another obstacle to get past, as if there weren’t enough already. Just then, another man entered the room and spoke quietly into Sweeney’s ear before leaving.

Sweeney turned to Heyes, “We brought your horses and gear back. Someone took them over to the livery for you.” he told them.

“Thank you.” muttered Heyes.  Then, with a sigh, he said, “I guess we should get a room at the hotel.” They couldn’t just sit around here all day.

“I’ll get that organized for you.” said Sweeney, “What’s your name?”

“Smith.” replied Heyes.

Sweeney nodded and left the room.

“Drink your whisky, Thaddeus.” Heyes told him.

Mechanically, Curry picked up the glass and put it to his lips.

A few minutes later, Sweeney reappeared.

“Room’s organised for you.” he told Heyes.

“Thank you.  You’ve been very kind.” Heyes stood up,  “Come on, Thaddeus.” he said, taking his arm and encouraging him to his feet.

Curry made no protest, allowing himself to be led across to the hotel.  Sweeney accompanied them and picked up the room key from the desk clerk. The clerk tactfully made no comment about their reappearance at the hotel so soon after leaving.

“Thank you.” said Heyes as Sweeney handed him the key, glancing apprehensively at Curry who seemed almost in a trance, barely aware of his surroundings.

“If you need anything, just ask.  Everyone knows where to find me.” he said.

“Thank you.” Heyes said again, “But I think we just need some time, you know…?”

Sweeney nodded, knowing only too well.

Heyes turned away and ushered Curry upstairs to the twin bedded room they’d been allocated. Sweeney stood watching them out of sight, marvelling at the resilience of the young man, Mr. Smith, who, after already suffering the loss of his family and now his love, could still find it in him to show compassion to his friend for the loss of his son.  After his own family had been murdered he had hated everyone, for a lot of years, and it was only through a chance meeting with a travelling preacher, who had spent time talking with him, that he had finally found some kind of acceptance and closure.  He prayed that Mr. Smith and his friend would be able to do the same.

Once inside their room, Heyes directed Curry to one of the two beds and sat him down on it. Curry lay down, rolling over to face the wall, his back towards Heyes, and curling up into a foetal position.

Heyes eyed him for a moment before moving to stand at the window, his arms folded about himself.  He could see the undertaking parlour from where he stood and tears misted his eyes as he pictured Veronica lying there, so still and cold and beautiful. He shook his head.  This should never have happened.   Indeed, if it wasn’t for himself and Curry arguing over the rights and wrongs of their relationship with her it wouldn’t have happened. 

He gave a tremulous sigh, wondering how they were going to come to terms with all of this.  Although Heyes had ended his relationship with Veronica more than two years ago, he’d never stopped loving her and, he realised now, had unknowingly harboured a secret hope, in the deepest recesses of his mind, that, at some point, perhaps after - if – they got the amnesty, they might somehow have rekindled their relationship.  That secret hope had been extinguished after Curry had found out about Jack and decided to marry her and be a father to him, but even the pain of that was more bearable than this.  At least she’d have still been alive, even if he couldn’t have her.  Now, she and Jack were gone leaving both of them shattered and a huge void that would be impossible to fill.  After the deaths of their families, all those years ago, Heyes had thought that nothing could ever hurt him that much again, until now, and he wasn’t sure if he, or Curry, would be able to find the strength to survive it a second time.

It began to grow dark as he stood at the window, but Heyes, lost in his thoughts, was unaware of it.  He stood there long into the evening, staring vacantly out into the darkness, motionless, save for the silent tears that periodically slid unchecked down his cheeks, until, eventually,  his eyes grew heavy and his legs threatened to give way underneath him and he finally turned away from the window and moved across to lie on the other bed. But even though he was exhausted his mind was overwhelmed, with memories and emotions and  fears and worries about the future, and it was late into the night before sleep finally overtook him.

*     *     *

The next day dawned dull and overcast, with oppressive clouds that threatened storms.

Curry woke first, initially thinking that yesterday had just been a horrible dream and when the realisation came to him that it wasn’t, was overwhelmed afresh with grief.  He lay there for some time, staring up at the ceiling, too desolate even for tears, numb to his very soul, until, eventually, the call of nature forced him to rise and seek out the chamber pot.

Heyes was still asleep, having lain awake until well into the early hours, but stirred at the sounds of movement in the room.

“Kid?” he muttered, as Curry finished with the chamber pot and then crossed to pour some water into the basin and splashed his face, the cold water hitting him like a slap in the face.

“I didn’t mean to wake you.  Go back to sleep.” Curry said quietly, without looking at him, his voice flat and devoid of all emotion.

Heyes rubbed his face with his hands and then raked them up through his hair before sitting up and swinging his legs to the floor.

“I’m awake now.” he muttered.

Curry didn’t reply as he splashed some more water on his face, while Heyes remained sitting on the edge of the bed, his hands limp in his lap, staring vacantly at the wall, his mind elsewhere.

​

Curry straightened up and picked up a towel with the intention of drying himself but instead stood staring vacantly out of the window, his mind taken over with memories of the previous day, the towel still in his hands, forgotten.

Neither moved for several minutes each lost in their own thoughts. It was Curry who eventually broke the silence.

“Where’s Jack?” he asked, his tone sounding oddly detached.

Heyes blinked, coming back to the present.

“At the undertaker’s… with Veronica.”  he muttered.

Curry gave a half nod of acknowledgement, but didn’t reply.

Several more minutes passed before Heyes said, “We should see about the funeral…”

Curry nodded again.  Presently, he said, “It looks like a storm’s coming.”

It was Heyes’ turn to nod, even though he hadn’t yet looked out of the window and had no idea whether a storm was coming or not.

Curry finally became aware of the towel still in his hands and dried his face.

“Sheriff should be back by now.” Heyes said presently, “He’s blaming Quinlan for ambushing the paymaster. He took off with some of the men to try and catch up with him.”

Curry's eyes narrowed, but he made no comment.

Heyes gave a deep sigh, “I should have stopped to consider what Quinlan might be doing here, instead of suggesting we high-tail it out of town.” he said quietly, “Maybe we could have done something about it.”

“How could you know what he had planned?” said Curry, but his tone seemed to suggest that he believed Heyes, with his active imagination and impeccable sense of opportunity, planning and timing, which had made the Devils Hole Gang one of the most successful and notorious in the west, should have somehow been able to work it out.

Heyes shrugged, his gaze still fixed on the wall.

“I’m going to see Jack.” Curry said now, turning towards the door.

“I’ll come with you.” said Heyes, getting to his feet finally.

“I’d rather go alone.” Curry replied without looking at him, unlocking the door and exiting the room, leaving Heyes staring after him in confusion.  Yesterday he’d been inconsolable with grief, yet this morning he seemed coldly detached and Heyes was worried he was burying his grief rather than facing it.

He sat back down on the bed, his mind once again on the events of the previous day.  If only Curry had listened to him when he’d first tried to talk him out of marrying her and suggested that he just send money to support her and Jack.  If he had, they would have left town, like they’d planned, and Veronica would never have discovered their identities and so would have had no reason to be travelling with the army paymaster and she and Jack would still be alive.  The thought incensed him and made him want to scream with rage and grief, but he pushed the feelings back down, as he had done all those years ago when he’d buried the bodies of his and Curry's families, and got to his feet.

After washing his face and straightening his dishevelled clothes, he left the hotel and headed across to the Sheriff’s office.  Sheriffs’ offices were places they usually steered clear of, lest they should be recognized and arrested, but today he neither thought nor cared about that as he opened the door and went inside, his expression sombre.

The Sheriff was just carrying a mug of coffee to his desk as Heyes entered.

“Morning.” he said, recognizing him from the previous day.

Heyes nodded his acknowledgement of the greeting but didn’t reciprocate, saying instead, “Did you catch up with them?”

The Sheriff shook his head as he took a swig of his coffee, “We followed their trail as far as a stream a couple of miles away and then we lost it.” he told him, “It looked like they had a wagon to transport the box on to be able to move so quickly. They were probably over the border before we even arrived at the scene of the ambush.”

Heyes compressed his lips and shook his head in disgust.

​

“You said you thought it was Gabriel Quinlan?” he asked.

“Yeah. Why? Do you know him?” the Sheriff raised an eyebrow.

“Not personally.” said Heyes, “But, like everyone else, I’ve heard about the things he’s been up to this last few years.”

The Sheriff nodded, “He’s the only one I can think of with the guts to try and rip off an army paymaster.”

“So, what are you going to do about it?” asked Heyes.

The Sheriff shrugged, “There’s not a lot I can do while he’s in Mexico. I’ve sent wires out detailing what happened, with instructions to be on the lookout for him, and the army will be on the lookout for him too. They lost seven soldiers and a considerable sum of money, and they don’t take kindly to that kind of thing. There’s a detail coming over later today to pick up the bodies.”

“So, the killers of my friend, and my friend’s son – civilians - just get away with it?” growled Heyes.

In an attempt to counteract Heyes’ rising anger, the Sheriff said, “I understand how you feel, but there’s really nothing more I can do.”

Heyes shook his head, glaring angrily at the Sheriff, his eyes glittering with tears, “You have no idea how I feel.” he croaked, before turning on his heel and slamming out of the room.

He stood on the boardwalk, his hands on his hips, breathing heavily as he fought not to break down. It was heartbreaking enough to lose Veronica and Jack, but the thought of their killers escaping justice was intolerable.

Eventually, he managed to get control of himself and set off in search of the preacher in order to organise Veronica and Jack’s burial.

An hour later, he exited the preacher’s house, having somehow managed to keep his emotions in tact while the preacher had proffered his condolences for their loss and tried to offer him comfort via the Lord’s teachings, having arranged the funeral service for eleven o’clock the following morning.

From there he headed for the undertaker’s, drawn to see Veronica one last time.

The undertaker greeted him with a compassionate smile, waving him through to the room where Veronica’s and Jack’s bodies were laid.  Heyes’ stomach turned over as he walked past seven coffins, laid out in the main room, which contained the bodies of the dead soldiers.  Two empty coffins rested against the back wall, one full sized and one small one, and Heyes had to choke down a sob when he realised they were for Veronica and Jack.

As he entered the room, his step faltered when he saw Curry sitting on a stool cradling Jack’s body in his arms, his face streaked with tears as he gazed lovingly down on him.

At the sound of his entrance, Curry looked up, startled, meeting Heyes’ eyes with a look of despair that tore at Heyes’ soul.

“I-I didn’t realise you were still here.” muttered Heyes,  “Do you want me to leave you alone?”

Curry bent to place a kiss on Jack’s forehead before laying him down on a smaller table in the other corner of the room and getting to his feet with a shake of his head.

“I’ll come back later.” he said, without looking at Heyes.

“Kid…?” Heyes began, as he brushed past him without a glance and left the room.

Heyes stared at the door with an expression of anguish before bowing his head, a knot forming in his stomach at the gulf he could sense opening up between them, which he had no idea how to bridge.

With a growing sense of helplessness, akin to a drowning man being tossed around in a stormy sea, he turned and crossed to stand at the side of the table where Veronica lay, looking merely to be sleeping.  But as he took her hand in his it was ice cold.  Tears came to his eyes as he remembered the feelings that one touch from that warm, soft hand would provoke in him, the passions her kiss would ignite.

“I missed you… every single day.”  he whispered, “And I’ll carry on missing you, every single day…”  He shook his head, his shoulders shaking with silent sobs.

He sat there for some time, lost in his grief. He’d never met anyone who’d made him feel the way Veronica had, and doubted that he ever would again, and now she was lost to him, forever. The knowledge chilled him to his very soul and he wondered how he was going to go forward knowing that he would never again be able to see her face, hear her voice, feel the warmth of her embrace and the taste of her kiss.

It was late in the afternoon before he finally got to his feet, gazing down at her, knowing this would be the last time he would ever see her.

Bending, he placed one last kiss on her lips with a whispered “I love you.” before gently placing her hand across her abdomen.  He straightened and stood looking at her for a moment longer before, with a last sorrowful glance at Jack, he turned and left the room.

Outside, on the boardwalk, his stomach growled, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten since yesterday.  He wasn’t hungry even now, but he did feel in need of a stiff drink and decided that he should force himself to eat something before doing that, so he went across the street to the restaurant where he ordered a plate of stew, which he then only picked at, before heading over to the saloon.

As he exited the restaurant, the coffins of the seven dead soldiers were just being loaded into an army ambulance, across the street, to be transported back to the Fort.  Heyes stood watching, despairing of the tragic loss of life, his anger at Quinlan unbridled.

As the doors of the ambulance were closed, Heyes turned away and headed towards the saloon.

The temptation to just drown out his grief with whisky was almost overwhelming, but he refused to allow himself give into it. Not before the burial.  He owed it to Veronica to at least be sober at her funeral, and so he just had a couple of large whisky’s before heading back to their hotel as the sun was beginning to dip towards the horizon.

There was no sign of Curry as he entered the room. Heyes guessed he had hung around somewhere, out of sight, until he’d left the undertaker’s and then gone back to spend some more time with Jack.

With a sigh, he sat down in an old, worn armchair next to the window, looking across to the undertaking parlour and wondering if he was in there now, feeling confused about his behaviour today.  He knew he was broken hearted over Jack’s death but it was like he’d withdrawn into himself and, more importantly, away from Heyes, almost as if he blamed him for what had happened.  Heyes did feel somewhat responsible, for not having had the forethought to consider what Quinlan might be doing in San Elizario, and for allowing Curry to delay him from leaving, once he’d made up his mind to, which had set up the situation that had resulted in Veronica overhearing their conversation and running away. But he wasn’t the only one at fault.  In Heyes’ opinion, Curry had as much blame to bear as he did.

It was well after nightfall when Curry finally returned to the hotel.  As he entered the room it was in darkness and he at first thought Heyes wasn’t there, but, as he straightened up from lighting the lamp, he was startled to see Heyes sitting in the armchair, staring vacantly out of the window.

“Oh!” he gasped, startled.

Heyes blinked, returning from his reverie and turned his head to look him, squinting in the sudden light.

“Where’ve you been?” he enquired.

Recovering from his initial surprise at seeing him there Curry turned away, taking off his hat and dropping it onto the dresser as he said.

“At the undertaker’s.  I had a few things to iron out before tomorrow.”

“Such as?” Heyes raised an eyebrow.

Curry sighed and moved to sit on the bed.

“I’ve arranged for Jack and Veronica to be buried under the name Curry.” he said quietly.

Heyes twisted round sharply to look at him.  “You did what?” he gasped.

Curry began to pull off his boots, not looking at Heyes, “Jack’s my son.  I want him to have my name.”

“Are you crazy?” growled Heyes, “That’s like giving the law a map to your whereabouts! You--“

“Don’t worry.” Curry said, matter-of-factly, cutting off whatever Heyes had been about to say,  “I’m not stupid enough to reveal my real name.  I said that Veronica’s late husband was called Curry but that she had reverted to her maiden name of Browning after he died and she moved here, and I said that she should be buried under her late husband’s name since we weren’t married yet. As far as anyone knows I’m still Thaddeus Jones.  This way I can give Jack my name and still remain anonymous.”

Heyes looked aghast,  “Nice of you to discuss it with me first.” he growled.

“What’s to discuss?  Jack is my son, my blood kin. You said yourself it was wrong for him not to have his real name.”

“Jack was your son, yes, but Veronica was nothing to you, by blood or otherwise.” snapped Heyes, blind fury rising up inside him, not only because Curry had done this without consulting him, but because it would forever label Veronica as his.

“She was Jack’s Mother and Jack’s a Curry.” Curry replied hoarsely, putting his boots at the foot of the bed before straightening up and beginning to unbutton his shirt.

Heyes just stared at him, wounded to the core.

“So I get no say in the matter?” he asked bitterly.

Curry sighed, heavily, “You were the one who kept going on about me denying Jack his identity and how the Curry family line would be wiped out if I married under the name Thaddeus Jones.” he told him,  “Now you’re upset because I fixed it so they will have the name Curry. Whatever I do is wrong in your eyes.” He shook his head sardonically as he tossed his shirt aside and began to unbutton his pants,  “Well, it’s done. There’s nothing more to be said.”

Heyes glared at him, as Curry stripped down to his long johns climbed into bed and rolled onto his side with his back towards Heyes, resentful at his attitude. Losing Jack was a tragedy, yes, but he wasn’t the only person to have lost someone.  Heyes had lost Veronica who, while not blood kin, meant just as much to him as Jack did to Curry and he was deeply hurt that he had arranged to have Veronica buried under the name Curry without even asking for his agreement. He had never loved Veronica, not in the way that he did, and had only asked her to marry him so that he could be a part of Jack’s life.  Heyes hadn’t stood in his way since he was the one who had given him his blessing to see her in the first place, but in his own mind he still saw Veronica as his and, had it been possible, he would dearly have liked to have her buried with the name Heyes.

Abruptly he got to his feet and left the room, slamming the door shut behind him, needing to get out, and get some air, before he said or did something he would regret.

He wandered the streets, unheeding of the sights and sounds of the evening as he brooded on everything that had happened, distressed, angry and disgusted all at the same time, oblivious to the looks from the people he passed when they saw the tears on his face that he was unaware of shedding.

Only when exhaustion threatened to overwhelm him did he finally return to the hotel, so heavyhearted he barely had the strength to propel himself up the stairs.

Curry, who had himself lain awake with his grief long into the evening, was asleep as he entered the room, the lamp still burning on the table.

Heyes, further irritated that Curry had been so unconcerned about his whereabouts that he’d fallen asleep, resisted the vindictive urge to slam the door and wake him up, instead closing it quietly and crossing to blow out the lamp before undressing and climbing into bed where he lay staring blankly into the darkness, the image of Veronica’s face filling his mind.  When sleep finally claimed him, his dreams were tortured as his mind relived the events of the last few days, which in turn triggered the long buried memories, from childhood, of his parent’s brutal murders by raiders who had attacked their farm, jumbling them all up together into a horrific nightmare that had him tossing and turning all night long.

​

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