​Retribution
- 14 -
Several years passed, during which time Lom continued to receive periodic letters from Heyes and Curry, telling him their news, although they had never returned to Porterville to visit him nor invited him to visit them.
Then, one day, a telegraph arrived from the small town of Morrill just inside the Nebraska border, which had obviously recently received it’s own telegraph office as part of the ever growing network spreading across the country.
Lom opened it, his face paling as he read the few words on it.
"Lom. Joshua sick. Please come. Need you. T’"
Lom dropped the paper and gathered a few things together. He knew he wouldn’t get a stage at least until tomorrow, so decided to ride there. It never occurred to him not to go. Curry hadn’t said what was wrong, but it had to be serious or he wouldn’t have asked for him. He collected some supplies and stopped off at his office to inform his deputy that he had been called away on urgent business and that he wasn’t sure how long he would be gone and for him to contact him at Morrill if he needed to.
Then he set off, stopping only when absolutely necessary to speed his arrival.
When he arrived, he wasn’t sure how to go about finding them as he didn’t know who to ask for. He decided to try the telegraph office first, hoping Curry had thought to leave word for him there.
"Hi, my name is Lom Trevors. I was sent a telegraph from here, concerning a friend who’s sick. Is there any message for me?" he asked the clerk, who frowned thoughtfully before saying, "Ah, yes." He looked through his papers, "You’re to go to the doctor’s office."
"Where’s that?"
"Far end of the street on your right." The clerk pointed in the direction.
"Thank you." Lom picked up his hat and left. He mounted his horse and rode up the street, pulling up outside the doctor’s office. He tethered the horse and went inside, knocking dust off his clothes with his hat.
A middle aged woman, with smiling brown eyes and greying hair, greeted him, "Can I help you?" she asked.
"I hope so. My name is Lom Trevors. I was told to come here. I received word to say a friend of mine is sick"
"Ah, yes. We’ve been expecting you. Just a moment please." said the woman, disappearing into another room.
Lom turned away to gaze pensively out of the window, a million thoughts whizzing through his head.
"Lom!"
Lom turned, to see Curry standing in the doorway, one hand on the door handle. Their eyes met and held, and all the years that had passed since their last meeting faded away and it seemed like only yesterday since they’d stood in the saloon in Cheyenne, laughing and joking with each other.
Curry strode across the room and shook Lom’s hand, "Thank you for coming."
"I got here as soon as I could. What is it?" Lom asked, studying his face. He looked older. The lines around his eyes were deeper and he’d gained a little weight. His eyes were worried, and he raked a hand anxiously through his hair, now cut short.
Curry sighed, heavily, pacing the room, "He’d been having stomach pains for a few days. I thought it was the usual thing… you know?" He glanced across at Lom, "But I should have known it wasn’t… we don’t do much socialising these days." he paused momentarily, "Then he started vomiting, and the pain got worse. I wanted him to see the doctor, but… you know Heyes." he shrugged, "Then… he just collapsed. That’s when I brought him here. The doc said something about… a… ruptured… ulcer? He operated on him, but he’s no better. He’s got a raging fever and he’s in a lot of pain. The doctor ‘s talking about infection, and shock, and poisoned blood… I’m scared, Lom."
Lom didn’t like the sound of it either, but he put an arm around his shoulder and squeezed reassuringly, "Don’t worry." he told him, "Can I see him?"
Curry nodded. He started towards the door, but Lom caught his arm, "You’d better tell me your names." He told him.
"Mmm?" Curry looked blank for a moment, "Oh, yeah. I forgot you don’t know them. Heyes is known as Joseph Turner and I’m Benjamin Wilson."
Lom nodded, "O.K."
Curry led the way into a back room where the doctor was tending Heyes.
He was stripped to the waist, bandages covering his abdomen. He was delirious with fever, his body bathed in perspiration, thrashing about and groaning with pain.
Lom approached the bed and stood looking down at him. He hadn’t changed a great deal. His dark hair sported a few grey hairs and his skin seemed more leathery after all the time spent outdoors. Unlike Curry, he’d gained no weight, or else lost it since his illness.
"Does he know you?" he asked.
"Sometimes. He drifts in and out of it." Curry turned his gaze to Lom’s and Lom could see the fear in his eyes.
"What do you think, Lom?" His voice was a whisper, his eyes searching Lom’s for reassurance.
"I don’t know." Lom said truthfully.
Curry sat down by the side of the bed, where he’d been before Lom arrived, while Lom took the doctor aside to question him. He told Lom of how he’d operated but that the bacteria and poisons had already begun to spread through his body.
"What are his chances, Doc?" asked Lom.
"Not good." said the doctor, "He’s a tough cookie, but I don’t know if it’s enough."
Lom closed his eyes. It had to be.
Curry and Lom kept a vigil at Heyes’ bedside through the night. Once or twice Heyes seemed to come to his senses, and they spoke to him in whispered tones. He seemed pleased to see Lom, taking his hand and holding onto it, as pain flowed through him, causing him to cry out, his body rigid.
"It’s O.K." Curry soothed, "You’ll be alright. Just relax."
However, the next morning brought no improvement in his condition and Lom began to worry. He knew the fever should be subsiding by now if he was to recover, but if anything he was worse, writhing about in pain, his body burning up.
Later in the day, Lom sensed a change in Heyes. He became calmer, and more lucid, but seemed distant, drifting into a world of his own, and suddenly, Lom knew he wasn’t going to make it. He also knew that he couldn’t stay and bear witness to it.
He took Heyes’ hand in his two, leaning down to look intently into his dark eyes. They still held so much fire, so much desire to live, that it brought a lump to Lom’s throat.
He swallowed it down and tried to sound cheerful as he spoke.
"I’m just going to slip out and book a hotel room." he told him, "The Kid will stay with you."
Heyes nodded, "O.K." he replied, his voice barely more than a whisper.
"You just relax, and don’t worry about a thing. Everything will be alright. O.K?"
Heyes nodded again.
Lom swallowed hard. There was so much he wanted to say, but he couldn’t. He just hoped Heyes would read it in his eyes.
"It’s good to see you again, Heyes." he whispered, hoping the doctor wouldn’t hear him using his real name, "I’ve missed you, you know? The place hasn’t been the same since you two decided to go it alone." Lom squeezed his hand, "But I’m proud of you. You’ve done O.K."
Heyes shook his head, his eyes bright, "We did good." he whispered.
Lom nodded, "Yeah. You did real good." he said hoarsely, "Listen, you rest now. I’ll be back in a while."
Heyes nodded, closing his eyes briefly, and Lom could tell he was tired. Tired of fighting. His whole life had been a fight, for survival, and now he’d had enough.
Lom held onto Heyes’ hand, gazing down at him, memories flashing through his mind of happier days when they’d all ridden together as outlaws, young and free and full of life. If only one could stop time. He bit his lip, as tears threatened, reaching out, absently, to gently push a lock of hair back off Heyes’ forehead.
With a last squeeze of his hand, and a reassuring wink he whispered, "I’ll be seeing you, Heyes." before standing up, and, with a pat on Curry's shoulder, left the room.
He went across to the hotel to book a room, his mind still in the doctor’s office with Heyes. Then he stabled his horse before going back up the street, where he sat down on the step outside the doctor’s office to wait.
He contemplated whether or not to go back inside. He felt he should be there to support Curry, but he couldn’t face it. With a sigh, he decided against it. He’d said his goodbyes. It was Curry who should be with him now. Poor Kid. He was willing Heyes so hard to live, he either hadn’t seen the signs, or wouldn’t acknowledge them, although Lom suspected that, deep down, he had recognized the signs or he wouldn’t have sent for him. Lom sighed. It was going to be hard on him.
He didn’t know how long he’d been sitting there, when he heard the door open. He turned, to see Curry, standing on the boardwalk, his face ashen, his eyes bleak. He stumbled dazedly down the step as Lom stood up and moved to stand in front of him.
Curry suddenly became aware of his presence, his eyes focusing on Lom’s, their expression tortured.
"He…" he began. "He’s... gone…" his tone saying he didn’t believe it.
Lom nodded, "I know." he said, his own voice sounding strangled.
They stared at each other for a moment, each struggling with their own emotions. A tumbleweed rolled past them, blown by the breeze that blew dust in their faces as they stood there. But they were unaware of it.
Curry opened his mouth to speak, but no words would come.
Lom reached out to squeeze his shoulder, his own throat too tight to speak.
At his touch, Curry fell against him, burying his face in his shoulder, his shoulders heaving as he began to sob.
Lom brought his arms up around him, silent tears sliding down his own cheeks as they stood alone in the street, holding onto each other, weeping, not only for the death of a fine, free spirit, and a good friend, but for themselves, knowing that the void his passing had left neither would ever quite be able to fill.
Lom wasn’t sure how long they’d been standing there when he finally became aware of his surroundings once more. Today was Sunday, and, this late in the afternoon, there were few people about. But, as Lom looked up, two men were walking by on the other side of the street and giving them decidedly odd looks. At any other time, Lom would have laughed at the admittedly strange sight of two men clinging onto each other in the middle of the street in broad daylight, especially when they weren’t drunk. But, today, Lom couldn’t see the funny side.
With an effort, Lom drew himself up, not aware until that moment that he’d been crying. He wiped the tears off his face with the back of his hand and pushed Curry to arm’s length, trying to look at his face beneath his bowed head.
"Come on." he said hoarsely, taking his arm, "Let’s get you home."
"No." Curry cut in, pulling his arm free and shaking his head, "I can’t." he croaked.
"O.K, O.K." soothed Lom. He thought for a moment before taking his arm once more and leading him towards the hotel.Curry followed without any protest, obviously numb, as indeed was Lom, but one of them had to see to things, and Curry was obviously too upset to do much about anything right now.
Lom led him upstairs to the room he’d booked earlier that day. Was it really only that afternoon? Lom wondered, as he opened the door and propelled him inside. It seemed years ago and yet, at the same time, only an instant.
Curry sank onto the bed, his hands limp in his lap, head bowed, his expression distraught.
Lom had brought a flask of whisky with him and he poured two stiff glassfuls, taking one over to Curry and pressing it into his cold hands. "Drink this." he told him.
Mechanically, Curry obeyed, lifting the glass to his lips and sipping it, while Lom returned to the dresser and picked up his own glass, turning to face him as he sipped the whisky.
Neither spoke for some time, each lost in their own grief. Even though Lom had seen it coming and had a little time to prepare himself for it, it had still hit him hard, and it was obvious that Curry couldn’t take it in at all. But then they’d been together almost all of their lives. For him, losing Heyes would be like losing an arm or a leg. Lom wondered what he would do now, but it was too soon to ask. He was too upset to think of anything right now. But there was one thing Lom had to ask.
"What about… the burial?" he ventured.
Curry closed his eyes, "I don’t know…" he muttered.
"Did he have anything… specific… in mind?"
Curry shook his head, "Not that I know of… He never said anything… I don’t suppose he was expecting…" he broke off as his voice faltered.
​
Lom was surprised. With the way they’d lived their lives he would have thought they would have at least discussed the subject. But maybe, deep down, they’d both expected to be caught eventually, or killed in some shoot out somewhere, in which case their burials would have been taken care of for them. Or maybe Heyes just hadn’t cared what happened to him after…" Lom shuddered, still scarcely able to believe that he was gone. A thought occurred to him about the burial, but he would wait until tomorrow before he mentioned it to Curry. If they talked about it now, he would very likely break down again, and Lom couldn’t handle that right now. He was struggling to hold onto his own emotions. He couldn’t comfort anyone else just now.
He sighed, putting down his now empty glass, forcing his mind onto more immediate problems.
"Who are your neighbours at the farm?" he asked presently.
"The Fosters." Curry muttered.
Lom nodded, "Tell me how to get there and I’ll go and see if they’ll look after things at your place for a while, until you get back."
Curry nodded, slowly, only half listening to what Lom was saying.
He gave him directions to their farm, which was two miles out of town, the Fosters’ place a mile further on. Then Lom poured them both another drink. Later, when he felt Curry had calmed down enough not to do anything stupid, he quietly left the room and went downstairs to ride to the Fosters’.
He followed Curry's directions and soon found their farm. He paused briefly outside the gate, but didn’t go in. Instead, he rode on until he came to the Foster’s farm, dismounting and going up to the door of the house, taking his hat off, his face grim as he contemplated what to say.
A slim, middle aged man, with greying brown hair, answered his knock at the door. He was lean, but muscular in build from years of working his farm. His skin was deeply tanned, and his dark eyes looked questioningly at Lom, a faint hint of suspicion in their depths, reminding Lom of the way Heyes had looked at people he wasn’t sure he could trust. He thrust the thought from his mind as the man asked, "Yes? Can I help you?"
His hand rested lightly on the door frame and Lom sensed the shotgun on the wall just inside, a few inches from his fingers. This man was obviously well prepared for trouble.
"Mr. Foster?"
"Yes."
"My name is Lom Trevors. I’m a friend of…" Lom tried frantically to recall the names Curry had told him they now lived under, "…Ben Wilson’s."
"Oh, yeah?" Mr. Foster relaxed a little, dropping his hand to his side, "What can I do for you, Mr. Trevors?"
"Lom." said Lom, extending his hand.
"Jim." Jim Foster reached out to shake it.
"What can I do for you, Lom?"
"I’m afraid I have some bad news." Lom told him.
"Oh?"
"Mr… Turner… He… died… today." The words stuck in Lom’s throat, ‘Died today’. So matter of fact. No trace of the trauma that lay behind them.
Jim’s mouth fell open, "What? Joe? But… how?" Jim looked genuinely shaken by the news.
"He’s been ill for a few days… Stomach problems. The doctor operated, but…" Lom shrugged.
"Gee… that’s terrible…" Jim shook his head, "Come to think of it, I haven’t seen him around for a while." He sighed, gazing past Lom into the distance, something about his dark eyes conjuring up the image of Heyes’ face in Lom’s mind.
"That’s a shame. He was a nice guy."
"Yes." Lom nodded, "He was."
"Please, come in." Jim stepped back from the door and waved Lom inside. Lom stepped through the door, finding it difficult not to smile as he noted the shotgun on the wall, just as he’d sensed. Not all of his senses had dimmed with age.
They were in a large kitchen, where a woman with blonde hair piled up on her head turned to look at them.
"Mary, would you believe it? Joe Turner died."
Mary Foster drew in a shocked gasp, "No… How awful." She shook her head, "And so young."
"This here’s Lom Trevors." Jim told her, "He’s a friend of theirs. Lom, my wife Mary."
Lom shook hands with her, "Howdy, M’am. I’m sorry to greet you with such bad news."
Mary shook her head sadly, "He was such a nice man." she said, "He used to come round here a lot when they first moved here. Ben too. They’re nice people."
"Would you like some coffee?" Jim asked, "We just poured some ourselves."
"Thank you."
Mary showed Lom to a chair. Lom nodded his thanks and sat down while Mary poured a cup of coffee and put it on the table in front of him, "We thought Ben might be part of the family once." Mary said, sitting down at the table,"He was pretty taken with my younger sister, Rita, but…" she shrugged, "she met somebody else before he plucked up courage to do anything about it."
Lom nodded. So, that was the Rita he’d mentioned in their letters. He took a sip of his coffee.
"The reason I’m here," he told them, "is, well… we have to see to the burial… and, Ben…" the name still sounded strange on his lips, "…well, he’s too upset to come home right now. I was wondering if perhaps you could look after things at their farm until he gets back?"
"Of course." Jim cut in, "It’s only a small place. I’m sure we can handle it along with our own." He sipped his coffee, "Where will the burial be? I’d like to pay my respects."
"I’m not sure." Lom hedged, "It might be in Wyoming. I think it would be a weight off Ben’s mind if he knew you were looking after things here for him."
Jim looked disappointed, but nodded, "Of course. But you will tell him how sorry we are, won’t you? And that we would willingly have come for the burial." His dark eyes bored into Lom’s reminding him once again of Heyes. He lowered his eyes, pushing the vision from his mind, "I will." he replied.
Lom stayed a while longer before accompanying Jim back to Heyes and Curry's farm for him to see to the animals.
Lom went into the small house they’d shared while Jim saw to the feed.
The gloom that had hung over him all day seemed to choke him in here, amongst their things, still left as they had been when Heyes had collapsed; A half empty mug of coffee on the table along with a plate with a half eaten sandwich on it, now gone stale. A pair of muddy work boots tossed in a corner. The beds unmade. Some tools left on the porch outside. In one of the two bedrooms, on a nail behind the door hung Heyes’ holster. A brief search revealed his gun, fully loaded, in the drawer of the dresser. Lom picked them up, intending to take them back with him. It seemed fitting somehow that they should be buried with him. They’d both been excellent shots, Curry extraordinary, and they’d built their reputations on that fact, practicing daily in front of their gang members and treating their weapons like favoured mistresses, knowing that their lives might depend on them and their ability to use them. Heyes had loved his gun, one of a limited edition, which he’d won from it’s owner, a circus sharpshooter, in a card game many years before. It was indeed an impressive weapon, and, even though he rarely used it, leaving all that to Curry, Heyes had lavished much love and care on it over the years.
When Jim had finished, he and Lom shook hands and parted company, and Lom rode back to town.
It was late when he got back to his room after stopping off at the saloon for a stiff drink first.
He lit the lamp and turned to look at Curry, who was asleep on his back on the bed, still fully clothed.
Curry had been unaware of Lom’s departure for the Fosters' as he’d tried to take in the events of the afternoon. Shortly after Lom had left the doctor’s office, Heyes had seemed to drift off, almost into a trance-like state, gazing at some point beyond Curry's shoulder. At least he didn’t seem to be in pain now, he had noted thankfully.
"We did O.K... didn’t we, Kid..?" Heyes asked suddenly, his voice a whisper.
Curry looked puzzled, "Sure we did." he replied soothingly, wondering what he was talking about.
"It wasn’t… how it was supposed to be…" Heyes continued, a slight frown furrowing his brow, seeming not to have heard him speak, "If only…" he sighed, closing his eyes briefly, "I’m sorry…" he muttered, his voice barely audible.
"What for?" asked Curry, but Heyes didn’t reply, his gaze returning to something he seemed to see in the corner of the room.
"Heyes?" He said urgently, taking his hand and squeezing it.
Heyes turned his gaze briefly onto Curry's face, "You… look like… your Father" he muttered, a slight smile touching the corners of his mouth as he closed his eyes once more, "Do you know that?" He opened his eyes again, shifting his gaze once more to the corner of the room, an odd look on his face, and suddenly, in that instant, Curry realised that Heyes wasn’t going to make it, the realisation hitting him like a blow to the stomach. For a second he stopped breathing. No. It wasn’t true. He would be alright. He’d been through worse than this and survived. He was just tired, delirious. He would be alright.
But, when he looked again at Heyes, he knew it was useless telling himself that. One look in his eyes told him the truth.
"Heyes." he called, squeezing his hand, his tone frantic.
"It’s been… so long…" Heyes muttered, his gaze still focused in the corner of the room.
"Heyes." He called again as Heyes’ eyelids drooped and he closed his eyes, before briefly opening them once more, as though trying to fight an overwhelming tiredness. He gazed up at him, but his eyes were blank, and Curry knew he didn’t recognize him. Then, his eyes closed once more, and Curry felt his hand go limp in his.
"No." The word was a whisper, "Doc?" he shouted to the doctor who was in the next room, his eyes riveted on Heyes' face. He was just sleeping, that was all.
The doctor hurried in and bent to examine Heyes, while Curry watched, his heart pounding in his chest.
The doctor straightened and turned to face him. He was a kindly looking man with a mane of white hair and gentle grey eyes which looked sadly at Curry through the round, gold rimmed spectacles he wore.
"I’m sorry, lad." he said quietly.
Curry tore his gaze from Heyes’ face to look at the doctor, his eyes disbelieving.
The doctor shook his head, "I’m sorry." he repeated.
Curry turned his gaze back to Heyes’ body, shaking his head in disbelief. He dropped Heyes’ lifeless hand as though scalded, standing up and backing away from the bed, his expression tortured.
"No." he groaned, his breath coming in short, strangled gasps.
The doctor took a step towards him, taking hold of his arm, "Now, now… come and sit down… he said soothingly, but he pulled free of his grasp, "No." he said again, his voice anguished. He turned away and stumbled towards the door.
"Mr. Wilson… wait…"
"Oh, God." Curry groaned, returning to the present as the vision faded from his mind. It was dark outside now, but he didn’t notice. All he could think of was the terrible emptiness that consumed him. He covered his face with his hands and flopped down on the bed, wishing he could go to sleep and wake up to find that it had all been some awful dream.
Eventually he drifted off into an exhausted sleep.
Lom gazed apprehensively down now at Curry's pale face, his expression distraught even in sleep. He seemed to have aged ten years this afternoon.
He got a blanket and covered him, before wrapping another around his own shoulders and settling down in an armchair. He tried to sleep, but couldn’t, his mind full of memories; of their outlaw days together, the jobs they’d pulled, of nights celebrating their ill-gotten gains around their camp fire.
He still remembered the look on Heyes’ face the night he’d told him he was going straight. He’d never seen so many expressions cross a man’s face in just a few seconds. Initially surprise, then disbelief, followed by anger, then understanding and, finally, resignation. He’d calmed down the other men, Curry included, who hadn’t Heyes’ foresight and believed Lom would bring the law down on them and wanted to lynch him there and then. Then he’d taken Lom aside and secretly confided that he thought Lom was making the right decision. He’d been sad too, because he’d thought that they’d never see each other again. Lom had suggested that they do it too but, although Heyes had followed the course of ‘progress’ in his mind to it’s logical conclusion and knew that before long they’d have to quit or die, he wasn’t ready then. Fifteen years Lom’s junior, he was still young enough to enjoy the challenge of outwitting the law, still young enough to believe that living a full and adventurous life as a famous outlaw was infinitely preferable to growing old poor, and dying a nobody.
It had taken seven years and several narrow escapes before a turning point was reached.
During a particularly disastrous train robbery, one of Heyes’ gang was shot dead, and Heyes himself had been shot in the arm as they made their escape. The gang had split up and made their own ways back to their hideout. Curry's horse had fallen climbing up a steep ridge, breaking it’s leg and throwing him, concussing him badly. He’d had to shoot the animal and make his way back on foot.
When he became overdue back at their hideout, Heyes had been frantic, thinking he’d been captured, or killed, and blaming himself for the whole disastrous affair.
When Curry had finally arrived back, weary and disorientated from the concussion, Heyes, his injured arm in a sling, had dashed to meet him, throwing his arm around his neck and embracing him. The experiences of that day made him realize that life was more precious than money and he had persuaded a reluctant Kid to join him in going straight, although none of the other men would. They’d gone on alone, but without Heyes’ brains and ingenuity they hadn’t been very successful and soon split up.
One had been killed in a gunfight over a card game. Two others had died of illness. The last Lom had heard, there were only one or two left alive, and he wasn’t even sure about them now.
His mind wandered on, through the trouble with Felton and the fight for, and failure to get, the amnesty.
At first light, he still hadn’t slept, his mind wandering on now to more recent events.
He must have dozed off finally, because it was a couple of hours later when movement from the bed woke him with a start.
He looked across to see that Curry was awake, staring at the ceiling as though trying to decide if he’d been dreaming or if the events of the previous day were real.
"Kid?" called Lom, softly.
Curry turned his head to look at Lom.
"How are you feeling?" Lom asked.
Curry shrugged, sitting up and swinging his legs over the side of the bed, yawning and raking his fingers through his hair.
​
"You been there all night?" Curry indicated the chair Lom had slept in.
Lom nodded, "Yeah."
"I’m sorry." muttered Curry, "This is your room. You should have kicked me off."
Lom shrugged, "It doesn’t matter. I didn’t sleep much anyway."
They sat in silence for several minutes, before Lom said.
"Want some breakfast?"
Curry shook his head. Lom nodded. He wasn’t particularly hungry either, but they couldn’t just sit here all day.
"I was thinking." He began presently, "Remember that small meadow at the back of my place?"
Curry nodded.
"It’s a pretty place. Peaceful, quiet. I thought maybe… well… Heyes liked it I think. He often used to go there whenever he wanted to be alone… I thought… I was thinking… it might be a good place to… you know… for the burial…" he trailed off.
Curry closed his eyes, his expression distraught.
"What do you think?" Lom asked.
Curry nodded, "Maybe… yeah…" he said gruffly.
"I think he’d like it."
They fell into silence for several minutes before Lom looked at him once more,"O.K. then?"
Curry nodded. Then, giving a deep sigh, "O.K."
Lom washed and dressed and went over to the doctor’s office to tell him what they were going to do. Then he went to the undertaker’s to arrange for a coffin. He paid for it himself, telling him that he wanted to leave town with the body the following morning. The undertaker agreed to have everything ready by then. Lom then went to the telegraph office to send a wire to his deputy telling him he would be back in a few days, and asking for a progress report on things back in Porterville. He waited while the clerk sent it, and then for the reply, which said that everything was fine and there were no urgent problems that couldn’t wait until he got back. Lom was relieved. He didn’t want to have to explain where he’d disappeared to if anything serious had happened during his absence.
He left the telegraph office and went across the street to get some lunch. He wasn’t really hungry, but he had to have something. He hadn’t eaten since he’d arrived. He selected beef stew off the menu without consciously thinking about the choice, and wasn’t particularly aware of what he was eating even as he ate, his mind full of what had happened, of grief for Heyes, of worry for Curry and how this would affect him, and of the immediate things that had to be dealt with.
After he’d eaten, he went to purchase some supplies for the trip back to Porterville.
When he got back to the hotel, Curry was missing. With a sigh, Lom turned and went back downstairs, guessing where he’d gone.
He crossed the street to the saloon where, sure enough, he found him propping up the bar, drowning his sorrows. He’d drunk his way through the better part of a bottle of whisky and was pretty far gone. At the moment he was giggly drunk, his grief numbed by the alcohol, but Lom knew it would turn to melancholy later. He tried to persuade him to go back to the hotel with him, but he couldn’t get him to leave until he’d finished what was left in the whisky bottle, by which time he was rambling incoherently about things he and Heyes had done as though he was still alive. Lom led him back to the hotel, supporting him as he swayed drunkenly, staggering and stumbling up the stairs to Lom’s room where he sank onto the bed looking sick, before passing out cold. Lom pulled his boots off and covered him with a blanket. It was still only early evening, so Lom left him to sleep and went back to the saloon himself. The temptation to join Curry and drown out his feelings with liquor was almost irresistible, but he resisted. One of them had to keep a clear head.
When Lom returned to the hotel two hours later, Curry hadn’t stirred.
Lom made himself comfortable in the armchair again, but this time he slept almost as soon as he closed his eyes, the two previous sleepless nights and the liquor he’d drunk, catching up with him.
* * *
The next morning, Curry looked like death. Lom insisted on taking him out for some breakfast as he hadn’t eaten at all the previous day, and probably not much for days before that. But as soon as he saw the food, his face paled and he hurriedly left the restaurant to throw up. When he returned, Lom was gazing out of the window, his mind back on the day Heyes had done the very same thing, the morning after he’d killed Felton.
As he sat down, Lom turned his gaze to his, "You O.K?" he asked hoarsely, blinking back tears.
Curry nodded. His face looked a more healthy colour now than when they’d left the hotel.
"Eat something. You need to keep your strength up for the trip to Porterville."
Curry lifted his eyes to Lom’s, their expression seeming to ask ‘For what?’ Then he lowered his gaze and began to eat while Lom looked away, choked, pushing his half eaten breakfast aside.
After breakfast, Lom gathered his things together and, after checking out of the hotel, loaded them onto the wagon he had obtained, along with the supplies he’d purchased the previous day, while Curry stood around looking lost. Then they climbed up onto the wagon and rode up to the doctor’s office.
Curry remained on the wagon while Lom went inside, and then he and the doctor carried Heyes’ coffin out and loaded it into the back of the wagon.
Lom shook hands with the doctor and bid him goodbye before mounting the wagon and taking the reins. He glanced across at Curry, but he was staring straight ahead with an expression Lom couldn’t read. With a sigh, Lom shook the reins and the horses started off.
They rode in silence. Lom could still scarcely believe that it was Heyes’ body in the coffin they were carrying. It was hard to imagine never seeing him again, never sharing a drink, or a joke, or a confidence. Until two days ago, he hadn’t seen them for eleven years, but it had always seemed as though they were still close while they were both still alive. But now…" Lom sighed, glancing over at Curry. He’d barely spoken all day. He looked sick, but that was probably due as much to the after effects of his drinking session the previous day as anything.
When they made camp in the evening Curry refused any food, laying out his bedroll and lying down with his back to Lom.
Lom cooked himself a meal and then leaned against a large rock, a cup of coffee in his hand. He glanced across at Curry. He knew he wasn’t asleep, just pretending to be so they didn’t have to talk. He’d barely said a word the whole day. Lom hadn’t felt much like talking either, but Curry was too quiet, bottling up his grief. He needed to talk about how he felt. Lom sighed. Maybe later. Involuntarily, his gaze shifted to the coffin in the back of the wagon, still struggling to accept what had happened, his heart heavy with grief. He wondered whether the illness that had caused Heyes’ untimely death had been brought about by the stress of years of brooding about killing Felton.
He remembered back to the last time he’d seen them, when he’d run into them in the saloon in Cheyenne, and the look in Heyes’ eyes when he’d told him of his depression when things were going well because he believed he had no right to enjoy life after what he’d done. He’d tried to pass it off, to make out that he’d learned to live with it, but deep down inside, Lom guessed that he never really had and that, over the years, his guilt had eaten away inside him until it had destroyed him. Lom shook his head. If only he’d been able to put it behind him, he might still be here now. With a sigh, he cleared away, before unpacking his bedroll and settling down for the night.
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