Find a Way or Make One

By Anita Sanchez

            Heyes looked out from the seat of the wagon over the wide hills of the prairie, golden with late summer sunflowers. He flapped the reins around the neck of the tired horse as the wheels of the heavily loaded wagon bumped over the road, then sighed and pushed his hat back to wipe the sweat off his forehead; Kansas was a hot place, he thought, hottest place he'd ever been in, and there were few trees here to block the sun. He hadn't realized how much he would miss the shade of trees.

            But it was a new land, this wild grassland spreading out around him, a land full of promise. The rich green of the grass reminded him that this land meant a second chance for him, a fresh start. He began to whistle as he shook the reins again. He was almost home.

            A sudden loud crack interrupted his whistling, and he yanked back on the reins, fearing that an axle had broken. Another crack, and a burst of splinters flew off the side of the wagon seat; he stared at the round hole beside him in sudden fear. Then there was another shot, and the wide-brimmed brown hat was blown clean off his head.

            He looked around wildly, trying to find where the shots were coming from. The road ran through a narrow valley, and at first he could see no one. Then a fourth shot whizzed over his head, and he caught a glimpse of a  figure crouching on the top of a hill. He jumped off the seat and ducked behind the wagon.

            The frightened horse was sidling and bucking, and Heyes knew he couldn't hold him long. He looked desperately around for shelter, but the sweep of treeless hills offered nothing to hide behind but blades of grass. He glanced back along the way he had come, and spotted a rocky outcropping, where flat gray boulders jutted from the soil, halfway up a low hill.

            He hesitated, afraid of the long run across the open space, and hating the thought of leaving the precious contents of the wagon behind. But more shots cracked, and he saw men armed with rifles coming down the slope towards him. The horse tossed up its head and reared, tearing the reins out of his hand. Heyes cast a last bitter glance at the wagon, then raced for shelter.

            He ran up the slope, keeping low, hearing shots thud into the grass around him. After what seemed like an eternity, he reached the rocks, and dived behind a boulder, as the last bullets whined harmlessly off the stones.

            Silence fell, and he could hear the restless prairie wind whispering through the grass. A meadowlark sang in the stillness. He sat up and peered cautiously over the rock. More figures were moving down the valley towards the wagon, rifles ready, and he knew that they must be outlaws, the gang of raiders he had heard rumors of in the town he had just left. He watched them calm the horse and begin to inspect the supplies in the wagon; he clenched his fists in fury at the thought of them stealing his property, but there seemed to be nothing he could do to prevent it. He counted fourteen men.                        

            The outlaws appeared to be having some sort of disagreement. A tall, broad-shouldered man  seemed to be the leader, and Heyes could hear him shouting orders, though he was too far away to make out the words. Some of the outlaws turned away, apparently grumbling, and finally a thin, dark-haired boy began to shout back at the big man. The leader strode over and smacked him across the face, sending him sprawling in the dirt.

            Heyes watched their every move, hoping desperately that they would decide to make off with some of the smaller items and leave the wagon and its precious cargo behind. From his position on the hill he could see far down the valley, and he scanned the road from time to time, hoping to see some sign of help, but the minutes passed, and nothing happened.

            The shadows grew longer. He glanced at the sun, that was beginning to redden the western hills, then looked back eastward along the road. His eyes widened as saw a lone rider approaching at a leisurely pace. Heyes could see that he wore a floppy-brimmed brown hat and a sheepskin jacket, and had a six-gun belted around his waist. The curve of the road hid the outlaws from his view, but Heyes realized with dread that as soon as the man rounded the bend he would ride right into them.

            There was indecision in Heyes' blue eyes as he drummed his fingers on the rock ledge and considered what to do. If he kept quiet, maybe the outlaws would chase after the newcomer, and leave him an opportunity to get away with the wagon. The rider pushed the hat back on his head, and Heyes could see that he was a young man, with a pleasant face; the evening sun glinted on his dark gold hair.

            The stranger approached the curve, and one of the outlaws lifted his head warily, and gave a sharp order. Others looked up, and raised their rifles. Heyes spent no more time pondering. He stuck his head up over the rocks and bellowed "Hey, kid, look out!"

            The man reined in his horse, and whipped his gun out of the holster so fast that Heyes blinked. All of the outlaws had noticed him now, and Heyes saw several more of them swing their rifles to their shoulders. He shouted again, waving his arms. "Over here! There's cover here!"

            The man in the sheepskin jacket fired, and one of the robbers staggered back, clutching his shoulder. The others shot back, and the man's horse gave a scream and fell thrashing to the ground. Heyes could hardly bear to watch, certain the rider would be shot down, but the young man scrambled to his feet and raced for the rocks, firing as he went with such rapidity that the outlaws ran scurrying for cover. The man pounded up the slope, dived over a boulder and cannoned into Heyes. Both of them crashed to the ground.

            The firing ceased, and they lay frozen for a minute in the sudden silence. Then Heyes scrambled to his feet and peered over the rock. "They're going back to the wagon," he said, keeping his head low. "Maybe they'll leave us alone."

            The other man picked himself off the ground slowly, panting. "You okay?" asked Heyes, looking down at him.

            "Yeah," the man said. "Thanks for the warning," he added, and gave Heyes a broad grin, his brown eyes lighting. "Appreciate it."

            "Don't mention it," said Heyes, with an answering grin. "Couldn't just let them shoot you down. You're mighty good with that gun, stranger."

            "I try," said the man. "Where's your gun? Not wearin' a holster, I see. They get the rifle away from you?"

            "I don't carry a gun these days," said Heyes quietly.

            "Don't carry a gun!" the man said, staring at him. "What, out here in Kansas? With all the raiders and the border fighting going on? You must be crazy."

            Heyes shook his head with a smile and held out a hand. "A pleasure to meet you, young man," he said courteously. “Name's Heyes. Joshua Heyes."

            The other man shook his hand. "Thaddeus Curry," he said. "Proud to meet you."

            They peered again over the dusty rocks, lying side by side. The outlaws had gone back to the wagon and  were passing around a bottle, some of them lounging in the wagon bed, others gathered around on the road.

            "Had a bottle of wine in there," said Heyes bitterly. "Bringing it home to share with my wife."

            "You live around here?" asked Curry.

            "Not far," said Heyes. "Built a little place, just got the roof on. Homesteading with my wife and baby boy. You looking to homestead out here?"

            "Nope," said Curry. "Just passing through. Never seen a place yet that'd make me want to settle down."

            Heyes rolled over on his back and stared up at the darkening sky. "What am I going to do?" he asked, not expecting an answer. "They can have the wine, but I just can't lose the stuff in the wagon."

            "What' s in the..." Curry began to ask, but he was interrupted by shouting, and the rattling of wheels. They both looked over the ledge and saw the wagon being driving off by one of the outlaws, with half a dozen men in the back and the rest trotting along beside on horseback. "Damnation," Heyes said under his breath, and pounded his fist on the rock in frustration. "I've got to find a way to get it back."

            Curry stood up and began to reload his revolver. "We'll find a way," he said confidently.

            Heyes looked up at him, his brows raised. "You're going to help?" he asked.

            "Yeah, I owe you one," Curry replied. He finished reloading and nodded, deftly spinning the gun into his low-cut holster. "We'll find a way, or we'll make one. Anywhere around here we could get you a gun? Borrow one from a neighbor, maybe?"

            "I told you, I don't hold with guns," said Heyes. "Too much temptation to do something you'll regret, when you've got a gun handy on your hip," he added in a low voice. "I've found that out the hard way."

            "Well, at least you might live to regret it," Curry pointed out.

            Heyes shook his head. "There's other possibilities," he said. "We shall find a way or we shall make one."

            "That's what I said."

            "That's what Hannibal said."

            "Who?" Curry asked.

            "Hannibal. He was one of the greatest generals of all time."

            "In the War with Mexico, you mean?" Curry asked, looking puzzled. "Can't say I ever heard of him."

            "No, no," said Heyes. "He lived a long time ago. He fought the Romans."

            "Latin," said Curry, losing interest. "I never paid much attention in school when they got to the Romans."

            "Well, Hannibal was a Carthaginian, he was their leader in the second Punic war..." Heyes began.

            "You used to pay attention in school, huh?" Curry said.

            "Why, young man, I used to teach school, back home," said Heyes. "Now the Punic wars were..."

            "Come on, let's get a move on," Curry interrupted, shading his eyes to peer after the outlaws as they disappeared around a bend in the road. "We don't want to lose'em."

            "That's so," said Heyes and clambered to his feet. He looked up and down the quiet valley, considering. "I heard in town that they're new around here, those guys," he said. "The word is that they've been hiding out in West Valley, by the river. Let's head that way, I know a short cut."

            The fire blazed high, sending clusters of sparks up into the night sky. Every now and then one of the men would get up and toss another log on the red coals. The gang had long since finished off the bottle of wine, and were now making merry with the contents of a small barrel of cider that had been in the wagon. They had also pried open another barrel that contained salt pork, and the savory smell floated over to where Heyes and Curry were watching from the shadows, crouched side by side behind a bush.

            "Damn, that smell makes me hungry," said Curry. "I haven't had anything but jerky in three days."

            "When this is over, I'll invite you home for dinner," Heyes promised. "My wife makes the best pie in the world."

            "Don’t talk about pie," Curry groaned. "I could eat a horse right now." He rolled over on his back and put his hands behind his head. "Looks like we're going to be here for a while," he observed. "They don't show any signs of going to sleep. So what's the plan?"

            Heyes rubbed his chin. "Well, if they all go to sleep we'll sneak up and drive off in the wagon," he said.

            "That's the plan?" Curry demanded. "My, how brilliant! How long did it take you to think that up?"

            Heyes ignored this. "If they leave a guard, we'll have to find another way," he said, and Curry smiled and patted the gun in its holster.

            They lay side by side, watching the moon slowly thrust a silver edge over the hills in the east. "So what did this Hannibal guy do that made him so famous?" Curry asked idly.

            "Well, the Punic Wars were between Carthage and Rome, in the third century B.C.," Heyes began, in a tone of schoolroom lecture. "Hannibal's troops were hopelessly outnumbered..."

            "Fourteen to two?" Curry inquired.

            "Something like that," said Heyes with a grin. "So he decided to steal a march on the Romans, and attack from the least likely direction. He led his men across the Alps."

            "What's the Alps?" Curry asked, yawning.

            "A range of mountains, in Italy," Heyes answered severely. "Didn't you learn anything in school?"

            "The Romans were so boring I left before they got to geography," said Curry, unrepentant. "So go on."

            "Well, Hannibal crossed the mountains in the middle of winter, taking elephants with him–to use in the battle, you see."

            "He was crazy," said Curry, shaking his head.

            "Well, that’s what everyone said, they told him it was impossible, and he said 'We shall find a way or we shall make one.' He was a great man, a fascinating historical character. Why, I even named my son after him."

            "That was a mean trick," said Curry indignantly. "Saddle a kid with a name like Hannibal. Kids won't leave him alone when he gets to school. I know what that's like, I've had to put up with the name Thaddeus for twenty-one years."

            "Quiet," said Heyes. "The noise is dying down a bit."

            They peered down through the darkness, and saw that the blaze had sunk to a glowing heap of embers. The rising moon lit the little valley with a silver haze, and they could make out the shape of the wagon, not far from the fire. The horse was tied to a tree, cropping grass nearby. Most of the outlaws were rolling themselves up in their blankets, and the sound of snoring began to rise. Soon only three men remained chatting drowsily around the fire. Heyes fidgeted and drummed his fingers, while Curry crouched beside him as still as a stalking panther. "Maybe they'll all go to sleep soon," Heyes said hopefully.

            "You could tell them about the Punic wars, that might speed things up some," Curry suggested.

            Finally two of the men stretched out on their bedrolls, and began to snore. One man, however, remained sitting up, clearly planning to remain on guard. He sat hunched over the remains of the fire, facing the wagon, with his rifle between his knees.

            "Well, so much for that plan," Curry murmured.

            Heyes sighed. "I was hoping they wouldn't bother with a guard, way out here."

            Curry didn't answer, just pulled the gun from the holster. "Well, let's get to it," he said.

            "Hold on a minute, what are you planning to do with that thing?" Heyes asked, frowning.

            "Get the drop on'em," Curry replied. "Keep'em quiet while you hitch up the wagon."

            "And what if they don't keep quiet?" Heyes demanded. "You expect to shoot fourteen outlaws with one six-gun?"

            Curry shrugged. "Well, I might have to stop and reload a few times," he admitted. "You got a better idea?"

            "Put that gun back in your holster, young fellow," said Heyes. "I've got a plan."                

            The guard sat staring drowsily into the fire, listening to the drone of crickets in the tall grass. His eyelids grew heavier, and finally his nodded. He jerked it up, but before he could shake himself awake, he felt a powerful grasp on the back of his neck. A gag was stuffed into his mouth, and strong hands dragged him off the rock he was sitting on. None of the outlaw gang stirred from their comfortable bedrolls, and he was hauled into the bushes before he could make a sound.

            He was briskly propelled down a slope for a hundred yards or so, then his feet crunched on gravel. He could see the shadowy forms of cottonwoods that lined the riverbed, and he felt himself shoved against a trunk, his hands were yanked behind him, and in no time he was bound securely to the tree. The gag was choking him, and he shook his head frantically, trying to draw  breath. A hand reached out and pulled the cloth from his mouth.

            As his eyes got used to the darkness, he could make out the shapes of two men in the shadows. They stepped up and stood in front of him, and the moon shone full on their faces. One was slender and wiry, with a touch of gray in his dark hair; the other was a younger man, tall and sandy-haired. They looked him over, side by side.

            "What do you want of me, senores?" he gasped, trying to keep a bold face.

            "You Mexican?" asked the younger man, raising his brows. "You're a long way from home."

            "I am Lope de Vargas," said the boy proudly, raising his chin. "What do you want, gringo?"

            "Revenge," said the dark-haired man promptly, with a stern frown. "We want revenge."

            "For what?" the captive asked, bewildered.

            "You're trespassing on our territory, don't you know that?"

            "Your territory?" repeated Lope. "Who are you?"

            "Who are we?" replied the man. "Why, I'm Joshua Heyes and he's Thaddeus Curry, and we're the two most successful outlaws in the history of the west. We're the leaders of the...um, the Heyes and Curry gang. Haven't you heard of us?"

            "No," said Lope.

            "Well, we've been raiding around these parts for years, and this is our territory. And we take revenge on trespassers like you. We're going to make you wish you'd never been born."

            "But I am not the leader of the gang..." Lope began. “McGuire is the leader."

            "Well, that's all right, we'll start with you and work our way up," said Heyes.

            "But I tell you, I have nothing to do with where or who we rob,” Lope insisted. "I only joined these men last week. That McGuire, he does not ask our opinion. He just tells us what to do, and takes whatever he wants. He doesn't care if we get shot, or starve."

            Heyes ignored these protests, and turned to his partner. "So, Curry, what do you think will be the best revenge?" he asked. "Shall we give him the same treatment we gave all those others?"

            "Eh?" said Curry, sounding startled. Heyes frowned at him. "What shall we do for revenge, do you think?" he repeated, treading heavily on Curry's foot.

            "Ow!" said Curry. "Oh, right...uh, well, we could pull out a few fingernails," he suggested.

            "No, that's too merciful," said Heyes. "Let's cut out his tongue. After all, we don't want him to make any noise. If he made any noise, the rest of the gang would come running."

            The Mexican boy stared at them in horror, then swallowed and lifted his chin again. "I will never make a sound under torture," he said. "I am a de Vargas, and I would scorn to beg for mercy." Heyes and Curry looked at each other. Their prisoner set his teeth and closed his eyes, prepared for the worst.

            Nothing happened. He opened his eyes again, and saw that the two men were gazing at him with dismayed expressions. "You couldn't make just a little noise?" Heyes asked.

            "Never!" said Lope.

            "Great, we had to get a hero," Curry complained. "I told you this would never work."

            "Hang on a minute," said Heyes, and turned to Lope with a winning smile. "Listen, friend, I wonder if you couldn't help us out a little," he said politely. "We'd take it as a favor."

            "What?" said Lope, blinking at them in confusion.

            "We just need you to do us a little favor, that's all," said Heyes. "And speaking of revenge, you'd be getting a little of your own back on McGuire, at the same time," he added, eyeing the dark bruise on the boy's cheek.

            The boy shook his head. "I am Lope de Vargas, I would scorn to make a sound..." he began.

            "Yes, yes, we understand,” Heyes said patiently, as Curry rolled his eyes. "Very commendable, I'm sure. But we need you to make just a little noise, you see."

            Heyes and Curry once more crouched behind the bush and gazed down at the outlaw camp, where the fire had died to an orange glow amid the ashes. The outlaws were still snoring in their bedrolls, but the sky in the east was beginning to fade to gray. Heyes took a gold watch out of his shirt pocket and peered at it.

            "How much longer?" asked Curry in a whisper. "Gonna be harder to get clear in daylight."

            "Just about now," said Heyes.

            Suddenly a bloodcurdling scream echoed through the darkness. "Help! Help!" cried a voice. "Ayudame! They will kill me! Help!"

            The outlaws began to stir and roll over, and some leaped to their feet and gazed around in bewilderment. "It's Lope!" said one. "Where the hell is he?"

            "The voice is coming from down there by the river–someone's got hold of him," said a man, rubbing his eyes. "Maybe it's redskins."

            The anguished yells continued. "Sounds like they’re scalping him, all right," said a tall, burly man. "Maybe we should get out of here. It's only a Mexican kid."

            "We've got to go see what's going on, McGuire," said another, a small, thin man with long sidewhiskers. "We can't just leave him. Come on, boys, there's enough of us to scare a few redskins." Most of the men nodded agreement and picked up their rifles. "Come on, bring a light," the man said. Someone lit a lantern, and they all headed off down the slope to the riverbed, shoving each other and crowding together warily.

            Heyes and Curry waited till the last man had disappeared into the underbrush, then they both jumped up and raced noiselessly down the hill. Heyes grabbed the horse's rein and dragged him over to the wagon, and began to hitch up as fast as he could, groping for the straps in the darkness. Curry stood watching the shadows for any sign of  movement.

            The shouting died away, and Curry looked around at Heyes. "They found him," he said. "They'll be back any minute." He pulled the gun out of his holster.

            "Put that away, I said," Heyes grunted, straining at a harness buckle.

            "You're not the schoolmaster any more," Curry retorted, checking the chamber of the gun. He stood peering tensely into the darkness, the gun held ready, as the noise of footsteps and angry shouts began to draw closer. "Our best chance is to shoot a few of them. There's nothing wrong with shooting someone who's shooting at you!"

            "Come on, there's no time to debate the issue," said Heyes. "Let’s go!" He jumped onto the wagon seat. Curry hesitated a moment, then swung himself up beside Heyes. Some of the outlaws ran into the clearing, and shots began to crack. A bullet whined between the two of them, and others smacked into the back of the wagon.

            Heyes shook the reins, shouting, and the horse took off, the wagon jolting so that they were nearly thrown off the seat. Curry jammed the gun back in his holster, and used both hands to hold on as the wagon bounced and lurched up the hill. When they reached the road, Heyes turned onto the flat surface, and the horse bolted down the track at full speed. The noise of the pursuit faded behind them. 

            Finally the horse slowed its frantic pace, and Heyes pulled back on the reins to halt the wagon and let the horse breathe. Dawn was breaking, the gray light freshening to gold, and they could see the green hills around them and the road ahead, edged with nodding sunflowers. They sat side by side on the wagon seat, panting.

            After a few moments, Curry looked over his shoulder into the wagon bed, and his eyes widened. "Oh, no," he groaned. "Heyes, the wagon's empty!"

            "What do you mean?" Heyes demanded, swinging around to take a look.

            "The wagon's empty, there's nothing but these old sacks."

            Heyes smiled, and slapped him on the back. "Oh, that's exactly what I was after. They're all I need."

            Curry stared at him. "Three old sacks? What's in them?"

            Heyes didn't reply, just hopped into the wagon bed and hauled one of the heavy sacks up, then cut open a corner with his knife. A stream of gold poured into his hand. He lifted his palm for Curry to see what he held.

            "Seeds?" Curry said blankly. "Nothing but seeds?"

            "Seed wheat," said Heyes, nodding proudly. "Enough to seed the whole acreage. Spent every nickel I had on it. Oh, it's more than just seeds. It's the future." He tied the sack up carefully, then climbed back on the wagon seat, and gazed out over the brightening prairie.

            "I'm going to plant these seeds, come spring," he said. "And with the money I get from the crop, my wife and I will buy more seed, and livestock, cows and chickens. We'll build a barn. I'm going to sink my roots deep in this land." He clenched his fist around the handful of golden seeds.  "A man can have a good life here. This will make up for all the mistakes of the past; it's a new start, a second chance." He looked at Curry, his blue eyes wide. "A man's entitled to a second chance, don't you think? A chance to wipe the slate clean?"

            Curry shrugged, then nodded. "Could be," he said. "Could well be."

            "It'll be a good life," Heyes went on, as though talking to himself. "And Hannibal--my son--will farm this land, and his sons after him. We'll build a town, with a church and a school--maybe he'll be the schoolmaster, like me. Why, we'll ..." he broke off with a laugh. "Well, anyway," he said. "Got to get the seeds planted first."

            He glanced again at Curry, sitting beside him on the wagon seat. "I could use a hand, you know. You sure you won't change your mind about settling down?”

            Curry shrugged again, with a little less certainty. "Tell you what," said Heyes. "Come on home with me for dinner, anyway. Stay a little while. Say, I'll introduce you to my wife's sister."

            "Oh, yeah?" said Curry, raising his brows. "Is she pretty?"

            "Well, not as pretty as my wife, in my opinion. I like brown eyes and dimples myself. But most folks say my wife's sister is the prettiest one."

            "What's she look like?" Curry asked. Heyes flapped the reins on the horse's neck, and the horse started up with a weary shake of the head.

            "Well, she's got hair like cornsilk," said Heyes. "And the bluest eyes you ever saw."