Starring


Ben Murphy as Kid Curry
and
Pete Duel as Hannibal Heyes

Guest Starring


Christopher Pettiet as Hugh



Cliff Everett Smith as Sheriff



Earl Holliman as Wheat Carlson



Gary Clark as Farmer St. Isadore



Michael Learned as Mrs. St. John

Two exhausted horses plodded slowly towards a town in the distance carrying two tired and dusty riders, Hannibal Heyes and Kid Curry.  The sun shone straight at them and made it difficult for them to see.  His hat hanging by its stampede strap, the sunlight reflected off Curry’s blond hair, forming a yellow glow around his head.  As they approached the town, a sign became readable.

“Hey, there's a sign pointin' to–” Curry stopped.  His brow furrowed.  “That's the name of the town?  It don't make sense.  That ain't English, Heyes, and it ain't Spanish, neither.”

“Yeah, Lom wrote it down for me ‘cause he couldn’t say it either.  It's Irish, Kid, Cathair na Naomh.  Not sure I said that right, but I heard it means `City of Saints'.”



“That’s where Lom’s doctor friend is sendin’ us with this medicine?  City of Saints sounds like a real friendly place.  Why can’t we tell no one except this Mrs. St. John what we’re deliverin’?  Hidin’ something in a city with a name like that seems like a bad omen to me, like saints protect it or something.  I sure don't think that saints abide lyin'.”

“That sounds like Grampa Curry telling tales.  We’re going to deliver this to Mrs. St. John and help her because she’s a friend of the governor,” Heyes answered.  “We like doing favors for the governor’s friends.”

“Take the snarky look off your face,” Curry huffed.  “We do these favors hopin’ one will lead to us finally gettin’ our amnesty and you know it.”

Looking over the town, Heyes turned to his cousin.  “Why don't you take the horses to the livery, and I’ll meet you at the saloon.  I’ll see if I can find someone in there and ask them where we can find this Mrs. St John.  She can't be that hard to find; it's not that big of a town.”

“Okay.  Don’t know why Lom didn’t want us to bring it into town until we found her.  Seems kinda odd to me,” he shrugged.  “Hey, how much we payin’ Wheat and Kyle just to sit at our campsite and guard that package anyway?”  Curry frowned.  “What if someone finds them?”

“Twenty dollars, and as long as Wheat and Kyle keep the fire low and the wind keeps blowing away from town, no one will find them.  Have faith, Kid; it’s a good plan.”

ASJ---------------ASJ----------------ASJ----------------ASJ

Hannibal Heyes leaned on the bar drinking a beer in the saloon.  He yawned and rolled his eyes as he listened to the townsfolk around him talking.  Suddenly, the batwing doors were thrown open.

Gasping for breath, a wide-eyed man yelled, “The bank's being robbed!”

The bar emptied quickly.  Heyes plunked his beer down on the bar and followed behind, his eyes scanning the crowd and the street.  There wasn't a sign of his partner.  “Sure hope you're still in the livery, Kid,” he muttered under his breath.

“Get out of my way, I want to see!”
“Imagine robbing our bank!”
“My life savings are in that bank!”
“I can see the robbers!  There’s two of them!”
“Look out, they’ve got guns!”
“Where’s the sheriff?”
“They’re running towards the feed store.  Anybody recognize those horses tied near it?”

The whole town was huddling on the edges of the street or peeking around the corners of buildings watching the robbers race toward their horses.  

Heyes had said nothing, but was standing in the middle of the crowd that had gathered in front of the mercantile, trying to blend in.  

The burly sheriff stepped out of his office, pulling himself up to his full height with authority and confronted the robbers.  “Hold it right there, mister!  Put your hands up!  Where do you think you’re going with that money – our hard-earned money?”

“All right, Sheriff, looks like you caught me red-handed; I surrender.  See, I’m puttin’ my hands up,” outlaw number one said to the lawman with a smirk.

“Where’s your partner?”

“Right behind you, Sheriff.  Feel that cold metal?  That’s my gun pressin’ against your neck.  Drop your weapon – or else!”

The sheriff complied.  “Alright, I’m dropping it; don’t shoot me.”

“I’d suggest you back away and let the sheriff go.”  Kid Curry stood in the street facing the outlaws, the sheriff and, farther back, the crowd of townsfolk.  The sun reflected brightly off his golden curls, hiding his features.  The townsfolk and outlaws squinted to see him more clearly.

“Who’s that?”
“What's that man doing down there?”
“Can’t see him clearly with the sun in my eyes!”
“You recognize him?”
“Where'd he come from?”
“Hey – do you see that?  Looks like he’s got a halo.”

Curry took off his glove and unfastened the loop holding his gun in his holster.  He took a step toward outlaw number two who was still pointing his weapon at the sheriff's neck.

“I asked you real nice to let the sheriff go.  Now I’m tellin’ you.  Let the sheriff go!”



Outlaw number one went for his gun, but before he could get it out of his holster, the Kid’s Colt was in his hand.  He shot the outlaw holding the sheriff in the shoulder first, then swiftly turned to face outlaw number one, who quickly raised his hands high above his head.  

“Oww, my shoulder!” cried outlaw number two.  “Dang – ain't never seen anyone with a gun that fast! I never even saw him draw!”

The sheriff quickly bent down and picked up his gun, then held it on the two surrendering outlaws.

“Where did that stranger come from?”
“How'd that gun get in that stranger’s hand?”  
“Never saw him draw.”
“It just appeared in his hand, like magic.”
“And would you look at that – he has a golden halo!”

“That’s not a halo.  Just the sun hitting his blond hair, which is too long,” Heyes huffed.  “That’s just my partner, Thaddeus.”

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Suddenly, a runaway wagon rushed by with a farmer reaching fruitlessly to try and grab the reins.  Two small girls with their brown hair in pigtails and ribbons stepped off the boardwalk.  Giggling, and busy reaching into a bag of peppermint candy, the pair were not paying attention, oblivious to anything else going on around them.

“Oh my, get out of the way!  Run, run!” shouted the farmer.

“The shot that wounded the outlaw scared Farmer St. Isadore’s horses!”  
“Look, he can’t hold them; they’re running away with him in the wagon!”
“Watch out!  He'll never be able to stop in time!”
“There’s two little girls in the wagon’s way!”

The Kid seemed to appear from nowhere and diving, pushed the girls out of the way.

“That stranger, the one with the halo, he saved the girls!”
“He pushed them out of the way!”
“I never saw him standing anywhere near them.  How’d he get there in time?”
“Where'd he disappear to after he saved them?”
“Maybe the wagon hit him?”

The thankful mother ran to her little girls and hugged them close.  The group of townsfolk joined her on the boardwalk, scratching their heads in awe and disbelief, muttering to one another.

“Nobody’s laying in the street.”  
“He just disappeared!”
“Maybe he’s one of our saints!?”
“There's no maybe about it.  He must be one of our saints!”

“He’s not a saint, I told you.  He’s my partner, Thaddeus,” Heyes insisted a little louder to be heard over the words of the townspeople.

The mother, still kneeling, hugging her girls, looked up at Heyes.  “Saint Thaddeus.  He saved my little ones and the sheriff.  He caught those outlaws that robbed our bank.  Did you know that Thaddeus means courageous heart?”

A couple of the other townsfolk nodded and repeated, “Saint Thaddeus.”

Heyes, with a frustrated look on his face, muttered under his breath, “He’s not a saint; he’s an outlaw.”



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Farmer St. Isadore was thrown around in the seat of his runaway wagon desperately holding onto the sides with both hands, the reins dangling loose, dragging in the dirt.  The horses galloped off the road, narrowly missing trees and ditches.  Fearing for his life, Farmer St. Isadore screamed.

“Just hold on tight,” a calm voice reassured the man.  “They’ll stop runnin’ soon.

The farmer looked frantically to the left, right, front and back of the wagon as best he could while being heavily jostled.  “Who said that?  Where are you hiding?”  He watched the horses narrowly miss a large boulder to the left.  Leaning to the right to stop the wagon from tipping over, he snapped, “All right, don’t answer me!”  A few moments later, he shook his head in amazement.  “Hey, you’re right, they are slowing down.”

“Told you they would.  Horses were just scared by the sound of my gun.”  The Kid walked from the rear of the now stopped wagon, untangling the reins of the horses.  He spoke softly to each animal, while stroking their heads.

“How did you get behind my wagon?” St. Isadore exclaimed.  “Nobody was following me!  Careful near them horses, they’re still spooked.”

“Nah, they just need me to tell them everything is okay.”  Curry continued to comfort the horses.

“You’re good with horses, mister.  They calmed as soon as you spoke to them.”

“Always had a way with horses.”

Farmer St. Isadore looked the stranger up and down, noticing his torn shirt with the back of it in tatters.

“You okay, mister?  Can I give you a ride to town?”  He eyed the other man skeptically.  “Still don’t understand how you got all the way out here.”

“I rode with you.”

“Nope.”  St. Isadore shook his head adamantly.  “I was all alone in this here wagon.  I know I was alone.”

Curry shrugged.  “Guess you'll just have to believe what you think you saw, then.  Thanks, but I don’t need a ride back.”

The farmer groaned as he gingerly climbed out of the wagon.  As his feet hit solid ground, he looked around for the stranger.  “Mister?  Where did you go?  Mister, sure you don’t need a ride?”

The farmer questioned his sight as he searched for, but didn’t see, any sign of the stranger.  He rattled each wheel of the wagon to test it, finally climbing back up in the seat, turning the buckboard around and driving away.  He turned to take one last look behind him, but seeing nothing, he shook his head and drove back to town.

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In the saloon again, everyone talked about what had happened.  Farmer St. Isadore was surrounded by a group of drinking men and pretty saloon girls, enjoying how everyone was listening to him.  Even the poker game had stopped so the players could hear the story.

He repeated his story over and over, each time with a little more embellishment.  “He must be a saint!” he exclaimed, his expression one of awe.  “When the horses were running, twice I heard his voice talking to me, telling me not to worry, that they would slow down soon.  Then, when they stopped, he reminded me that he had told me they would.  He looked out for me.”  He nodded reverently.  

“Just out of nowhere, he appeared next to my wagon.  One minute, weren’t nobody there and then the next – poof – there he was!  It was almost like he appeared out of thin air!  He petted those horses and spoke to them in words I couldn’t hear, and guess what?  They calmed down right away.”  Farmer St. Isadore basked in all the attention he was getting.  His glass was constantly being refilled.

“What happened next, St. Isadore?” asked one of the saloon girls, rubbing up next to him.

The storyteller continued, “Well, I asked him how he got there.  Don’t you know, he said he rode with me.  No way he rode with me,” he huffed and shook his head.  “Nosiree, I know for sure that I was the only one in that wagon!”

The crowd murmured in awe, “Saint Thaddeus!”

“Asked him if he wanted a ride home.  He said ‘no’ and just disappeared.  I swear to God, he was right there in front of my eyes one minute, then the next he was gone!”

Heyes leaned on the bar drinking a beer and rolled his eyes at the discussion behind him.  

Wheat entered the salon with bravado and looked around.  He spied Heyes at the bar and joined him, holding up a finger to the bartender for a drink.

“Got a message for you from the Kid.”

“Keep your voice down.”  Heyes shot Wheat a stern look.

“Sorry.”  Wheat continued in a whisper, “Curry’s back at the camp, all black and blue on his back.  Sent me to help find Mrs. St. John with you.  And bring his horse back.”

Heyes frowned at Wheat's words.  “How’d he get back there without his horse?”

“Said he’d tell us all about it when he wakes up; looked all done in, iffen you ask me.”

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“Heyes, you alone?  Wheat and Kyle stay in town?”  Curry looked up from his seat by the campfire as Heyes rode into camp trailing the Kid’s horse.

“Yeah, Wheat wanted a drink and Kyle saw a girl he wanted to take upstairs.  Since we’re here in camp, no need for their help tonight.”

“Why’d Lom send us here and make it such a big secret?” Curry wondered aloud.  “Looks too small of a town to keep secrets.  Glad camp was so near; don’t think I could've walked much further.  My back’s–”

“The town is small.  Small enough that it has a sheriff that don’t know us and no deputies.  As far as the secrets, Lom has his reasons.  Every town has them; this one isn't any different.  And we were sent here ‘cause this is where Mrs. St. John lives.  No luck finding her yet.  All anybody wanted to talk about in the saloon was Saint Thaddeus.”  

“Saint Thaddeus?”

“That’s what the town called the man with the golden halo who stopped a robbery, saved the sheriff with a gun that magically appeared in his hand, saved the lives of two little girls, talked to a farmer without being seen, appeared next to the back of his wagon when he stopped, calmed his frightened horses with a few words, then disappeared,” Heyes sarcastically explained.  “I know you feel compelled to help the needy, Kid, but this is going too far.”

“Saint Thaddeus?  Wow, who’d a thought?”  Curry grinned.  

“How did you talk to the farmer in the wagon without being seen?  Were you hiding in the back?”

“Nah.  Didn’t have time to get up there.  After I pushed the little girls out of the way, I fell in the street.  That wagon would have run over me.  Those horses jerked to the right, and I grabbed onto that open shelf under the wagon that holds all the heavy bags of grain.  Good thing it was empty.  Wiggled myself up and rode there.”

A look of concerned realization passed over Heyes’ face.  “Not a lot of boards across on those shelves; a lot of room to fall through.  Mighty bumpy down there, too.  Your back keep scraping the ground?”

“Yeah,” Curry grimaced.  ‘Those horses were spooked and didn’t stay on the road.  They ran over that dry riverbed.  That very sharp rocky, dry riverbed.”

“Wheat said you were hurt.  You okay?” Heyes asked, concerned.  “I brought a bottle of whiskey, just in case you needed it.”

“I need it.”  Wincing as he reached for the bottle, Curry closed his eyes.  

Heyes saw the wince and his brow furrowed.  “Kid, I know you; you'd never let on how bad you were hurt.  Why don't you stay right there while I settle our horses and get some clean water from that stream?   I’m betting that back of yours needs a lot of tending so it doesn’t get infected.”

“You'd be right about that, partner.”  Gingerly, Curry took off the tattered shirt and swallowed a long drink of the whiskey.  Continuing to sit cross-legged by the campfire, he leaned forward to wait for his cousin.

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“Thanks for lettin’ me sleep so late, Heyes.  This back just wouldn’t let me get comfortable.”

“Yeah, St. Thaddeus needs his rest.  It’s past ten already.”  Heyes brought a plate of food over to Curry and handed it to him, along with a hot cup of coffee and sat down beside him.  “Kid, you won't believe the kind of morning I've had.  The townsfolk refused to tell me where Mrs. St John lived.  Close-mouthed every one of 'em.  I used all my charms, but none of them helped me get the information we need; they weren’t talking.  

“Then, I ran into Wheat.  He got the blacksmith, Jimmy St. Augustine, drunk last night.  That worked.  He told Wheat that she lives south of town.  Wait'll you hear the directions he gave Wheat; I couldn't believe 'em when he told me.  We're supposed to turn left at the dead tree that got hit by God’s lightning, go past the praying rock, then it’s the second turnout on the left.”  

Curry frowned.  “Wheat couldn’t get any clearer instructions?  What’s a prayin’ rock?”

Heyes shrugged.  “Don't know; guess we’ll find out.  And another thing, Jimmy also told him that no one’s allowed anywhere near that house.  The town don’t approve of her brand of medicine.  They say she’s a quack.”

“Her brand of medicine?” Curry echoed as he tried to stretch his back but stopped when the pain made him wince.  “What's that mean?”

“She’s a real educated doctor.  She graduated from a medical school in Philadelphia.  Mrs. St John reads all the medical journals and practices the latest techniques,” explained Heyes.  “Oh, and she’s a widow and not interested in remarrying.  The other ladies of the town don’t understand that.  Rumors say her medical views were responsible for her husband’s death.”

About to take a drink of coffee, Curry paused and his brow furrowed.  “Are you sayin' that they think she killed her husband?”

“No.”  Heyes shook his head.  “Nothing like that.  They think that what she tried to do to help him, didn't help and that if he had seen a real doctor he might still be alive.”

“Well, that sounds like a lot of ifin' and guessin' and not much proof, if you ask me.”  He took another drink.  “Wheat and Kyle got back late last night.  They’re sleepin' deep.  We takin' that package to the lady today?”  

“Yeah.  Thought I’d go back to the saloon.  See if I can get more information on Mrs. St. John and clearer directions to her house.  Wheat seemed to think it might be dangerous to visit her.  Need to find out who – or what – is making it dangerous, and why.  I want to deliver it today.”  Heyes placed the small box in his saddlebag.

“Sooner we deliver it, the sooner we get paid.  Just be careful with that package.  Ain’t like we can get more.”  Curry walked slowly and poured himself another cup of coffee.  “I’ll go visit this blacksmith fellow and see if I can get more details on the town’s feelings about her.  I'll meet you in the saloon.”

“Just try and keep a low profile and not attract any more attention.  Never know when someone might recognize us.”

“Geez, Heyes, I’m not trying to, it’s just happening.  Although I kinda like being the good guy for once.”

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Heyes pushed through the batwings and made his way to the bar.  While he waited for the barkeep to finish up with a customer, he glanced around, noticing a few familiar faces from the day before, as well as some new ones.  Hearing only reverent talk about the miraculous feats of St. Thaddeus, Heyes finally spoke, “He's no more a saint than I am.”

“Yeah?  What miracles have you worked?”
“You got a halo?”
“Sounds like sour grapes to me, mister.”

Smiling like the cat who got into the cream, Heyes picked up a hardboiled egg.  “I can make this egg stand on its end without breaking the shell.”

The bartender eyed him suspiciously.  “That ain’t anything divine; just a trick.  Paul St. Robert learned how to do that in Cheyenne; taught all of us how to do it.”  The bar patrons broke out in laughter.

Discouraged, Heyes inserted himself into the lone poker game in the saloon, hoping to steer the conversation to Mrs. St. John.  The back table where they were playing was the only well-lit section of the bar.  Frustrated that the other players were distracted as all they wanted to talk about was St. Thaddeus, Heyes won the first four hands without much effort.

ASJ----------ASJ----------ASJ----------ASJ  

Curry easily found the blacksmith shop off the alley that ran parallel to the back of the main street buildings.  However, he had not found the blacksmith himself, so he took the alley heading to the back door of the saloon.

“What’s that yelling?” he muttered to himself as he exited near a bright, sunlight patio behind the blacksmith.  

“Eleven!”  
“Gee, Hughie, that’s at least four times today you’ve rolled an eleven!”
“You cheatin’?”

“Nah, just lucky.” finished the small boy with intelligent brown eyes.

The Kid stepped onto the patio just as two dice came hurling through the air.  Without thinking, bending down, he caught them in one hand.  “Good thing fast reflexes are good for somethin' besides a fast draw.  Those dice would’ve hurt if they’d a hit my leg,” he mumbled to himself.

“Wow, Mister!  How’d you catch those?”
“They were rolling fast and hard!”
“You caught them in one hand when they was rolling in two different directions!”
“Where’d you come from?”

“How old are you boys?” Curry looked down at the youngsters playing craps with a sigh.  “A bit young to be gambling, aren’t you?”

Six pairs of eyes squinted as they looked up into the sun trying to see him.

“We’re old enough!”  

“Ain’t gambling if you know the odds!” added a smaller boy defiantly.

“What’s your name, boy?”

“Hughie St. Patrick.”

“You remind me of someone I knew when he was your age.  He always knew the odds, too,” Curry laughed.

Rolling the dice he’d caught around in his hand, the Kid smiled.  “Well, then, what are the odds of rolling an eleven with these dice, Hughie?” he asked, giving the boy a knowing grin.

Squirming, the boy answered, “One in 18.”  

“You know, my grandma told me that when you're doin' somethin' wrong, eyes from Heaven can see you.”  Curry watched Hughie start to shift from foot to foot.  “Gamblin’s wrong, ain’t it?”

“Well, it ain’t gambling if you know the odds,” Hughie repeated nervously.

“Craps is gambling.”  Curry fixed his gaze on Hughie; the boy squinted back.  He lowered his voice so only Hughie could hear.  “Especially with these dice.”

Hughie’s face turned crimson and he looked down at his shoes.  “Mister, can’t see your face real well, I’m looking into the sun, but I sure feel Heaven’s eyes, and you, staring at me,” he answered softly.

“Tell you what, boys; I roll an eleven and you stop gamblin’.  At least until you grow up some.  I roll anything else you go on playin’.  The Kid looked at the boys kneeling in an oval, thinking about his offer.

“Mister,” pleaded Hughie.  “Please just give me the dice back and leave.”

“Seems the odds are in your favor that I won’t roll an eleven.”

“Come on, Hughie.  Let him roll and when he loses he’ll go away.  Lookin' into the sun at him is makin’ my head hurt.”

With a deep sigh, Hughie saw that he was outnumbered.  “Feel like you can see right into my soul, mister.  Alright, bet taken.  Here’s the dice,” he said, producing another pair of dice.

“These ones here will be just fine,” responded Curry as he rolled the dice against a nearby wall.

“Eleven!”
“He rolled an eleven!”
“One chance in eighteen and he rolls it!”
“Wait a minute, heard my pa talk about you – you’re St. Thaddeus!”
“Can’t see your face, but your hair is glowing…like a halo.”

Picking up the dice, Curry just said, “You boys lost the bet.  I expect you to keep your side of it.  NO more gamblin'!”  The Kid used his outlaw voice but tempered it for the boys.

“Yes, sir.  No gamblin'.”

Leaving them before they finished answering, the Kid slipped down the alleyway and entered the back door of the saloon.  He stood in the shadows at the end of the bar and waited for the bartender to acknowledge him.  A saloon girl in a very low-cut emerald green dress approached him, rubbing her hand over his shoulder before standing next to him.  

“Drink?  Or something more?” she asked, seductively wrapping her arm around his waist.

The Kid leaned closer and inhaled her perfume deeply.  “You smell real nice.”  Taking a sideways glance at her, he shook his head before he spoke softly.  “Not today, Debbie, whatcha doin' here?  Shouldn’t you be home with your two little girls, 'specially after what happened?”

Shocked at his words, she failed to answer before a shout was heard from the poker game.

“You’re cheating!”  A muscular man pushed forcibly back from the table.  He took a gunfighter’s stance as he yelled at Heyes.  “A low down, slimy cheater!  Nobody wins that much!”

Staying seated, Heyes raised his hands, keeping them well away from his weapon.  “Anyone else think I was cheating?”

Heads shook no all around.  All eyes watched the two men.

“Don’t care what they say, you were cheating!” declared the disgruntled man.  “We’re settling this with our guns!”  He pushed his coat behind his holster.

Still in the dark area near the bar, the Kid stepped closer to the table, arms crossed, blue eyes focused on Heyes’ accuser.  “Your gun and my gun, friend.”

The man moved his hand toward his gun, but before he could draw, Curry had his Colt pointed at him.

As they squinted to look at the Kid as he stood in the dim shadows, the men at the table started mumbling.  Heyes' accuser didn’t move, his eyes focused on the drawn Colt.



“St. Thaddeus – where did he come from?” someone whispered.

“Didn’t come in the front door; I would've seen him,” the bartender stated.  “He just appeared.”

When the men turned to look at the bartender as he spoke, Curry gave a nod to Heyes and slipped out the back door.

“Did you see the way his gun appeared in his hand?”
“I couldn’t see him clearly.  Did he have a halo?”
“St. Thaddeus!”
“Yes, he had a halo.  It was beautiful.”
“He just up and disappeared!”

The disgruntled poker player still had not moved.  He stood as if frozen, with his hand just about to touch his gun, the way he had been when he had seen the gun manifest itself into Curry’s hand.  Slowly, he turned to face Heyes.

“It’s a sign!  St. Thaddeus was here!  A holy sign that you weren’t cheating, mister,” he whispered in a solemn tone.  “I’m sorry I accused you.”

Glaring at his accuser, Heyes snatched up his winnings.  “Of course, you'd see a sign!” he snapped, then stalked away, headed towards the bar.  “Maybe a drink will help me forget saint whatshisname!”

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