Kid Curry stood on the cabin porch, a cup of coffee in his hand, gazing absently out into the night.  It was a cold, crisp night, frost glistening on the grass and the nearby trees.  There had been no snow yet but indications were that it would arrive any day.

Curry took a sip of his coffee without shifting his gaze, wondering, for the thousandth time, where his partner might be.

His mind drifted back to the day, eight months ago, when they’d parted company.

Curry had been arrested, while Heyes had been out of town on another job, when a local woman had falsely accused him of killing her husband, after the man had earlier accused him of cheating at poker, and, but for Heyes coming up with one of his genius plans, to lure out and trap the real culprit, he would now be languishing in the Wyoming Territorial prison, or worse.

It had been a close call. Too close. Back at their hotel, following Curry’s release from jail, Heyes had sardonically chastised him,

“Why do you always get into trouble when I’m not here to keep an eye on you?”

The comment had been made partially from a sense of relief, that he’d managed to discover the real culprit, in the nick of time, and save his friend from either the gallows or a lengthy prison sentence, partially in frustration, at having had to do so, and partially as a joke, intended to lift the tensions left by the affair. Unfortunately, Curry, whose nerves, like Heyes’, were still jangled by the close call, had been rubbed up the wrong way by the comment and he'd lost his temper.

“Ha!  Like I’ve never had to get you out of trouble before now!” he snapped angrily, “We’re supposed to be partners. That’s what partners do, aint it? Look out for each other? I’ve saved your hide enough times in the past!”

“There’s no need to get proddy, Kid, I was just saying---“

“I know what you were sayin, that you think I‘m not smart enough to stay out of trouble on my own...”

“That’s not what I said.”

“It’s exactly what you said.”

“Well, it wasn’t meant that way. I was bein’---“

“You were bein’ your usual patronizing self,” Curry spoke over him, “and I’m sick of it…

“If—“ Heyes bit back the indignant retort he’d been about to make, realising it would just inflame things even more.

“Look, Kid—“ he began again, in a soothing voice, intending to try and diffuse the situation, but was stunned into silence by Curry’s next words.

“…In fact, I’m sick of this whole amnesty thing.  It’s a pipe dream.  No Governor is ever gonna grant the likes of us amnesty.  They’re just dangling it, like a carrot, in the hope it’ll keep us on the straight and narrow and they won’t actually have to deliver on it.  I’m sick of constantly having to look over my shoulder for the law, sick of having to hold my tongue and kowtow to people in case they recognize me. Sick of being broke, or of having to do menial jobs that pay a pittance, and of chasing around doing ‘favours’ for the Governor’s office, that we never get paid for, just to try and keep well in.” He shook his head, “You might be able to keep up with bowin’ an’ scrapin’ to the Governor, but I can’t.”

“Kid, cool down, will ya­­--” Heyes tried to interrupt but Curry cut him off.

“No!  I won’t cool down!” he snapped, pacing the room in agitation,  “I don’t want to do it any more.  I’m sick of living this way, and I’m sick of being made promises that are never kept, and I can’t keep a lid on my feelings like you can.  If anyone’s gonna blow any chance there might be of us getting amnesty, it’s gonna be me.  My temper all too often gets me into trouble, and my reputation follows me wherever I go.  I’m never gonna shake it off.  You can blend in, with people, an’ situations, but I can’t.”

“We’ve done alright so far.” Heyes interjected, but Curry shook his head.

“Sooner or later I’m gonna come up against someone wanting to take me on who I’m gonna have to kill if I want to stay alive, and if that happens when we’re together it’ll drag you down too. Even if we got the amnesty, people have long memories and they aint never gonna let me forget who and what I was. I won’t be no better off with amnesty than without it, so I don’t see the point in carrying on trying for it.  If you’re determined to carry on trying for it you’re better off doing it on your own.  You stand a better chance without me along. I think we should part company.”

Curry’s mind came back to the present as he recalled Heyes’ dismayed expression, at his words, and his attempts to talk him round. He’d worked his silver tongue to death, coming up with reasons why they were better off together, and why amnesty would be a benefit to them, but he had been resolute, sticking to his argument that, with his reputation as a gunman,  he would more likely be the cause of any trouble they ended up in than Heyes, who was less combative than him and more easily able to avoid, or talk his way out of, trouble, and insisting that they would be better off going their separate ways.

The argument had raged on for most of the evening, becoming more and more heated as each tried, and failed, to get their viewpoint through ears that were unwilling to listen.  They’d both ended up saying some pretty cruel and hurtful things as each took out their frustrations, generated by the life in limbo that they were trapped in, on the other. Frustrations going back years, and past quarrels that each had thought long since forgiven, or forgotten about, were resurrected and thrown accusingly at the other.

Finally, Heyes, angry and bitter that Curry wanted to break up their partnership after everything they’d been through together, and everything that he had done for his younger friend after the murder of their parents while still children, had given up trying to change his mind, throwing up his hands and yelling, “Fine!  If that’s what you want.” resisting the urge to add ‘But when you get yourself into trouble who’s gonna be there to rescue you?’

“It’s for the best.” said Curry, at which point Heyes had given an exasperated snort and slammed out of the room, not returning until well into the early hours when he knew Curry would be asleep.

They had parted company the following morning, Heyes catching a train in one direction and Curry boarding a stage in the other.

After they’d washed and dressed in a strained silence, Curry had accompanied Heyes to the train station, since his stage wasn’t due to leave for a couple of hours, both of them standing silently on the platform, as they waited for the train to come in, both trying to think of something to say that would bridge the gulf that had opened up between them, but neither able to find the words.  Curry hadn’t meant to imply that their parting should be forever, just until they got the amnesty, but it was obvious, from his quiet hostility, that Heyes had taken it that way and Curry didn’t know how to broach the subject, without triggering another argument, so said nothing.

They hadn’t shook hands or even said any farewells, only a gruff “Take care," from Curry, with a half nod and a brusque “You too,” from Heyes, as he handed his horse over for loading into the stock car before boarding the train without looking back.  But, as the train had pulled out and Curry had met his gaze through the window, the look in his eyes had spoken volumes about his feelings; anxiety, annoyance, sadness, and even a hint of betrayal.

Despite the warmth of the day, Curry had felt a chill run through him as he watched the train disappear from view.  Then, turning away, he had headed over to the restaurant for a cup of coffee, while he waited for the stage, haunted by the look in his partner’s eyes as the train had pulled out.

Curry came back from his reverie and took another sip of his coffee, the look in Heyes’ eyes, as he’d met his through the window, still in his mind’s eye.

After eight weeks on his own, he had realized his error in suggesting that they part company. He had done so with honourable intentions, worried that staying together would not only risk Heyes’ chances of getting amnesty, but also of him getting killed if he stepped in to back him up in any trouble he found himself in.  But now he worried constantly about Heyes’ safety without him there to back him up in any arguments, and he missed his friend’s companionship. They were so in tune with each other’s thoughts and behaviours, even periods of silence between them was a kind of communication.  Even arguing with him was preferable to being alone.

He decided he needed to find Heyes, apologize to him for getting so obstinate and forcing the break-up of their partnership, and, hopefully, get things back on track.

Firstly, he telegraphed Lom to explain that they’d parted company and to see if Heyes had been in touch with him, disappointed to find that he hadn’t.  He then wired him back to ask him to let him know if he heard from him, and where from. Lom promised he would.

Next, he decided to follow the train line, stopping off at all the stops along the way, in the hope of finding, if not Heyes himself, some clue to him having been there, perhaps at a saloon, playing poker, or having booked into a hotel, or stabled his horse at the livery stable. He asked a lot of questions and explored every possible lead but, when he reached the end of the line, he’d found not a trace of him.

He didn’t know why he should feel surprised.  Heyes was good at hiding his tracks if he didn’t want to be found. Clearly, he had taken Curry’s words to heart and had deliberately chosen not to leave any clues for him, or anyone else, to follow.

Curry was disappointed, but vowed to continue his search, spending the next few months traveling to anywhere he conceived Heyes might go, but drew a blank on every occasion. He contacted Soapy, and Silky, and a handful of other friends that they would trust well enough to turn to in troubled times, on the offchance he’d gone to visit any of them, but none had heard from him. He even made a brief return to Devil’s Hole to see if he’d been there but none of the gang had seen or heard from him either.

The more places he visited, with no success, the more he regretted forcing them to part company.  He was plagued with images of Heyes having got into trouble - such as perhaps being accused of cheating at cards - and, without him there to back him up, getting killed.  Heyes’ silver tongue could get him out of a lot of sticky situations but, while he was a decent shot he wasn’t in Curry’s league and if his silver tongue failed him he was likely to come off the worst in any shoot-out. To have covered his tracks so thoroughly he was no doubt using another alias name so, if he were to get killed, not even Lom would get to hear about it.   The thought that he might have been killed and buried somewhere under an assumed name, with no way for him to find him, weighed heavily on his mind. Knowing for certain that he was dead would be hard, but not knowing was even harder.

Periodic telegraphs to Lom confirmed that he hadn’t heard from him either.  It was as though he’d disappeared off the face of the earth.

Curry stared, now, into the night, once again cursing himself for driving his friend away from him.

A few flakes of snow began to drift down from the sky, drawing his gaze.  Was Heyes camped out somewhere, watching these same snowflakes and wondering where he was? he wondered.

He gave a deep sigh.  “Where are you, Heyes?” he said under his breath.

He blinked away moisture from his eyes, that he told himself was from staring too long into the cold night air, and drained the last of his coffee.

“Kid.  It’s nearly midnight.” a voice from inside the cabin pulled him back from his thoughts.

Turning, he went inside to see Lom with two glasses of whisky in his hand.

With a smile, Lom offered one of the glasses to Curry who took it with a muttered thanks.

He had arrived here, at Lom’s, on Christmas Eve. Lonely for company and knowing that, as their friend, and mentor, Lom was the only other person in the world who could understand how he was feeling, it had seemed the logical place to go.

Lom had been happy for the company and he had stayed the whole week.  Now it was New Year. Time for positivity. Time for new beginnings and making amends.  Maybe Heyes was out there somewhere, having the same thoughts as himself, and might perhaps decide to make contact. If not with him at least with Lom, for Auld Lang Syne – for old times sake.  It was a hope to cling to.

Lom eyed him, knowing what he was thinking.

“Let’s drink to a Happy New Year.” he said, holding out his glass for Curry to clink.

Curry shook his head,  “Let’s drink to… absent friends.”

Lom nodded, giving him a lop-sided smile, clinking his glass against Curry’s.

“Absent friends.” he echoed, before they both tossed back their drinks.

As he swallowed the whisky and savoured its flavour, Curry crossed his fingers and prayed that the coming year would bring not only their amnesty, but also his friend back to him, safe and sound.

*    *    *