He tried to put it out of his mind, but a small part of him always remembered, and whenever he visited Heyes’ grave he would talk about his feelings.
"I don’t know why he never came back." he said one afternoon, as he pulled up weeds around the grave, "Even if he’d just sent a wire…" He sighed, "We used to be so close once… He only had you… and me. Don’t we count?" His mind flashed back in time to one night, not long after they’d filed for the amnesty. They’d got into trouble, Lom couldn’t recall what now, but it had been quite serious, and, as ever, he had gone to try and save their skins. After it had all been sorted out, they’d headed back for Porterville. Around their camp fire that evening, they had gratefully thanked Lom for dropping everything to come and help them. After jokingly telling them not to make a habit of it, he had told them that, as his friends, if they needed help, they could rely on him, as long as they could prove their innocence. They’d passed around flasks of whisky and talked about old times. Then Heyes had raised his hand for silence and, only half joking, had raised the toast of the Three Musketeers, ‘All for one, and one for all’. Lom and Curry had merrily echoed the toast, clinking flasks and laughing.
Lom came back to the present, their laughter still echoing in his mind, a smile touching the corners of his mouth. All for one, and one for all! Lom grunted in irony. And where were they now? One dead, one lost, one forgotten.
"All those years…" Lom muttered, shaking his head, "All those years… to end like this." He sighed heavily, "It seems I’m dead to him." he said to Heyes’ grave, "…Well… now he’s dead to me too!" He sat for several moments, head bowed, contemplating the words he’d just said. He’d spent years trying to track Curry down, until it had almost become an obsession. Why the hell pursue it any more? Obviously their pasts and their friendship meant nothing to him, or he would have contacted him. Lom wasn’t getting any younger. He wanted his remaining years to be peaceful, not haunted by ghosts of the past. He decided it was time to do what he’d told Heyes to do all those years ago, as he’d lain in Lom’s bed sobbing over the pain and humiliation Felton had inflicted on him. It was time to let it go.
Lom got resignedly to his feet, "Rest in peace, Heyes." he muttered, and with a last look at Heyes’ grave, turned and walked away.
After that he visited the grave only when he knew the weeds would take it over if he didn’t, the memories it raked up getting more and more painful with each visit.
He lived the rest of his days in relative peace, and when he died, one sunny day in May, ironically, the day that would have been Heyes’ fifty third birthday had he been alive, the townsfolk buried him in the local cemetery, unaware of the grave in the meadow which remained undiscovered for many years.
* * *
One afternoon in November of that same year, Jim Hardacre, alias Kid Curry, was sitting in a barber’s shop in Denver, Colorado, reading a periodical while he waited his turn to get a haircut.
After months of travelling after Heyes’ death, trying to put what had happened behind him, he had settled here and forged a new life for himself. After several years working at different jobs, he had saved enough money to set himself up and now owned a small store. He could have made the equivalent amount by selling their farm in Nebraska, but he had wanted to prove to himself that he could succeed on his own merits.
He had thought of Lom over the years, but somehow hadn’t been able to bring himself to contact him. He was part of another life. One that was closed, finished.
In the beginning, he had refused to let himself think of Heyes at all, the memories too painful to bear, and it was a long time before he’d realized that, whilst consciously shutting out the memories, subconsciously they were always there. Often, when alone in his room, he would speak to him without thinking, his presence so strong it was almost as if he were there in the room with him. At first it had scared him, but over the years he’d learned to live with it, deriving comfort from the thought that maybe Heyes was there, somewhere, watching over him.
As he sat in the barber’s shop, he began to read an article about the colonisation of America and the fight to establish law and order, first against the Indians and then against the early outlaws. He couldn’t resist smiling as he read the names of Kid Curry and Hannibal Heyes in the list of ‘famous’ outlaws of the day. He had spent the larger part of his life living under false names, first as Thaddeus Jones, then as Benjamin Wilson, and, for the last ten years, as Jim Hardacre and didn’t even think of himself as Kid Curry any more. It was like reading about a complete stranger, his memories of those times, so long ago, having taken on a fairy-tale quality, so that he could scarcely believe he’d actually been there.
He turned the page and his eyes were instantly drawn to a familiar picture in an inset at the foot of the page. It was a picture of Lom. The article alongside it described Sheriff Trevors’ hard work to establish law and order in Wyoming, after ‘going straight’ from a life of crime, and of his work under the amnesty system, trying to get outlaws reinstated into the community. Curry's face paled as he read ‘Sheriff Trevors, who died in May of this year, after retiring three years ago, was a much respected lawman and member of the community’.
He dropped the paper, feeling sick. Guilt washed over him for not having got in touch with him all these years. He’d been so good to him, to both of them, over the years. He had deserved better treatment from them than he’d received. He owed Lom so much. There were so many things he suddenly wanted to say to him, but now it was too late.
Later that day, he boarded the stage and went up to Porterville. He was so wrapped up in his memories of Lom, and Heyes, that, without thinking, he checked into the hotel under the name that Lom had given him, Thaddeus Jones.
After putting his things in his room and freshening up, he walked up to the cemetery to pay his respects. He stood in front of Lom’s grave feeling desperately sorry that he’d never returned to see him.
Later, he got a horse from the livery and rode out to Lom’s cabin.
He tethered the horse outside, and stood looking at the cabin, empty since Lom’s death, looking no different than it had all those years ago when he had ridden away without a backward glance.
He finally plucked up the courage to go inside, unlocking the door with the key that Lom had given them years ago and which he’d never thrown away. Someone had been in after Lom died and cleared out all the food and stripped down the beds, but otherwise, everything looked exactly the same.
Memories flooded back to him as he wandered through the empty rooms. Late nights by the fire, chatting and playing cards, drinking sessions on the front porch, snatches of conversation, jokes and arguments from the many times they’d stayed here over the years, hiding out after some trouble, or licking their wounds when they’d been hurt, and suddenly, the distant memories of years ago were as fresh as yesterday.
Curry sighed. Lom had been so good to them, often at great risk to himself.
He went outside, and, involuntarily, his feet took him in the direction of the meadow and Heyes’ grave.
When he got there, he knew why he hadn’t returned before. The sadness of that day still lingered around the grave, overgrown now since Lom’s death, but through it, an aura of Heyes’ presence. He’d had such a powerful personality in life, it lingered even in death. Hundreds of miles away in Denver Curry hadn’t been able to shake it, and here it was even stronger.
He stood there for some time, in silent contemplation, before kneeling down and beginning to pull up the weeds and grasses that were threatening to take over the grave completely. The cross that Lom had erected was weatherbeaten now, but still legible.
Eventually, he returned to pick up his horse, to find a man waiting for him.
"Are you Mr. Jones?"
He almost said no, forgetting he’d booked into the hotel under that name, but at the last minute remembered.
"Yes."
"Thaddeus Jones?"
"Yes."
The man smiled, "We’ve been looking for you for months." he told him, "We were beginning to think you didn’t exist."
An ironic smile touched Curry's lips. At fifty one he looked older now, although not as old as he was. His hair was peppered with grey and his fair skin darker and more leathery from years in the sun, the laughing blue eyes that had charmed dozens of women in his youth carrying a permanent tinge of sadness.
"I’ve been out of town." he replied.
I’ll say, the man thought to himself. He couldn’t ever remember seeing him here before, and yet, there was something vaguely familiar about him.
"You heard about Mr. Trevors?" he asked now.
Curry nodded, "That’s why I’m here. To pay my respects."
"Well, Mr. Jones, I’m glad you turned up. I have some news for you." The man took out a piece of paper and held it up for him to see.
"Oh?" Curry looked suspicious, wondering if his true identity had been found out, by someone going through Lom’s papers after his death, and this man had been sent to arrest him.
"Mr. Trevors left a Will, and in it, he left this cabin, and the land around it over to the other side of that copse" he pointed in the general direction, "to you, and a Mr. Joshua Smith."
Curry's jaw fell open, "He what?"
The man repeated his sentence, but Curry wasn’t listening. Heyes was gone, and he had walked out of his life ten years ago, and yet Lom had left the cabin to him. To both of them. He couldn’t believe it.
"Do you know Mr. Smith?" the man was asking now.
"What?" Curry returned from his thoughts.
The man repeated the question.
Curry nodded, "He’s… dead." he said, his voice trembling as he said the words out loud for the first time since that day.
"Oh, I’m sorry." the man looked apologetic, "Well, it looks like you’ve got yourself a new home." He smiled and extended his hand, "Welcome to Porterville."
Curry shook it, "Thanks."
The man handed him the deed to the cabin, and the keys, and, after a few moments of polite conversation, left.
Curry stood looking around him, trying to work out what it all meant. He walked slowly back inside and sat down heavily at the kitchen table where he’d sat so often in years gone by, putting his head in his hands, feeing sad, lonely, and very humble.
Lom must have been hurt that he’d never contacted him after the way he’d looked after him and Heyes over the years. He suddenly realized that this was the only real home he’d ever known, more even than the farm he and Heyes had bought. It was a place where he was always welcome, where he could come when he was hurt, or in trouble, and be sure of help and comfort. And Lom? He’d been like a Father to them.
Memories sprang into his mind of their last meeting, when Heyes had died. They hadn’t seen Lom for eleven years prior to that, yet he’d dropped everything to come when he’d received Curry's telegraph. He remembered how Lom had held him in his arms as he’d sobbed in the street, how he’d taken him back to his room and looked after him, before going to sort things out with the Fosters, arranging for them to look after their farm, and arranging for Heyes’ coffin and transportation back to Porterville, while he had drowned his sorrows with liquor. He suddenly realized that Lom must have paid for everything.
He’d never said anything, nor asked for any reimbursement, and Curry felt guilty that he’d left it all to him. After the way they’d turned away from him after the loss of the amnesty, no-one would have blamed him if he’d told them to go to hell. And yet…
He gave a tremulous sigh. When he thought of the way he’d deserted him after Heyes’ death, so full of grief that he hadn’t been able to see how much it had hurt Lom too, he was overcome with shame and remorse.
"Oh, God, Lom…" he groaned, "I’m so sorry. Please forgive me…" he broke off, lay his head on his arms, and wept. For Lom, for Heyes, and for himself.
* * *
It took Curry some time to decide whether to stay in Porterville or go back to Denver, but, after much soul searching, he decided to stay. He’d spent half his life running away - from the law, from their old life, from the reality of Heyes’ death, the farm in Nebraska and from Porterville after Heyes’ burial, from Lom, and from himself. It was time to stop running, and it seemed fitting somehow that he should finish up back here, where the closet thing he’d had to a family was.
He was pleased, and proud, that Lom had left the cabin to him, to both of them, even though he’d known Heyes was dead, and couldn’t have been certain about him either, as though keeping it as a sacred place just for them. It was only a small, old, log cabin, but to Curry it was the most precious gift in the world and he wouldn’t have traded it for a train load of gold.
He decided to clear up the loose ends in his life, and went first to Denver to close up his life there. Then he went to Nebraska to see the Fosters. He told them that after all the years they’d kept up the farm, they were entitled to keep it, and made of gift of it to them.
He plucked up courage to go in on the way back, facing up to the memories of their time there that he’d closed his mind to for so long. They’d been happy here, unknown, safe from the law, respected in the community, and he was ready now to embrace those happy memories that had earlier been too painful. With a last look at the land that had once been theirs, he went back to Porterville, where he made a Will, requesting that, on his death, his body be buried in the meadow alongside Heyes’, under the name of Jedediah Curry. He had noticed, in recent years, a mellowing of people’s attitudes towards the outlaws of their day. They were coming to be regarded more as heroes than villains, which was fine by Curry, never having considered himself a ‘villain’ in the beginning. He hoped, when they found out who he really was, that they would forgive rather than condemn him.
The loose ends of his life sorted out, he lived in Lom’s cabin as Thaddeus Jones for more than twenty years, becoming a well known and well respected member of the community, and, when he died, the townsfolk, as he had hoped, after initially being surprised to discover his real identity, carried out his instructions and buried him in the meadow, next to Heyes, their reputation as ‘gentlemen’ of the profession making them proud, rather than ashamed, to admit that the two were buried in their town.
They erected a white picket fence around the graves and the children from the town took turns to tend them and leave flowers, fancying sometimes, that they heard laughter from the spirits of three friends, together again, ‘all for one, and one for all’.
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