Snow

By Wichita Red

The town sounded muffled under the falling snow, if filtered down in poker chip-sized flakes landing with the faintest tapping. Each flake shone as it drifted by in the glass plate windows of the general store like fireflies on a summer night. They stood with saddlebags across their drooped shoulders; mud-caked boots and splattered their clothes from the mucky ride down into town.

They had been staring past their haggard expressions reflected in the twenty square panes of glass at the display of the season. Neither had spoken; a buggy spun down the street, its harness bells jingling merrily.

“Want a bath or drink first?”

Curry kept his eyes fixed forward. “Think we can buy a bottle and take it to the bath house?”

Heyes nodded. “Let’s see if there are any bathes to purchase tonight?”

“How much we got?”

Heyes slogged off through the snow that was starting to pile against the boardwalk’s edge, thick enough it looked to be even with the street. He thought, one wrong step and a person will land flat out.

“How much?”

“After bedding down the horses,” Heyes looked over, “and they needed it.”

Curry did not argue, only nodded.

“Eight dollars.”

“What ‘bout the ten in your hat?”

“That is my ten . . . now it’s eight.”

They trudged past a Turner hall, pausing at the edge of its last full plate window. There were tables spanning the length of one wall, bowing beneath the weight of food, garland, and paper chains hanging from the ceiling, a band playing, and couples dancing. Every face within shone—happily.

As they stood there, the snow coating them as much as the ground, Kid finally said, “If we clean up, we could probably join ‘em.”

Heyes shook his head.

“Wasn’t talking ‘bout having a good time, just join ‘em, play out . . . maybe your tragic marrying the Mayor’s daughter story and we could eat from the tables”

“Not really in the mood.”

“Me, neither. Heyes, I am hungry.”

“You’re always hungry.”

Kid muttered to himself, “Seems more so anymore.”

Hearing him clearly in the muffled silence, Heyes sighed. “Bathes?”

Kid nodded. “Would appreciate the hot water.” He flexed his gun hand. “You sure you’ve never heard of Sheriff Jeffery Emmy?”

“Not ever. You?”

Kid shook his head.

“Well, there is something. Isn’t it?”

They returned to walking. It came to Kid that all he heard was the swish of their stiff clothes and the snow squeaking beneath their boots. He suddenly felt even lonelier. “We could ride out for the Hole.”

“Too late to make it through the passes.”

“Ain’t you the one always tellin’ me to have faith?”

“And I have faith it’s too late to make it through the passes. And, you know I’m right.”

The town was thinning, buildings further apart, when they spied a patchwork of golden squares of light glittering snow from the bathhouse windows, just where the livery boy had told them it would be.

Opening the red door, they were met with a satisfying blast of warm, humid air. Stepping, they lifted their eyes to the paper lanterns swaying from the ceiling. A resinous, woody, and spicy smoke spread into the room from burning incense, and they wrinkled their noses against the unfamiliar bite of it.

A clacking sound like bones knocking together about a Cheyenne burial ground, and a Chinese man in a deep indigo tunic tied at the waist with a faded, orange sash emerged through a beaded curtain. “Ye want bathes?”

“Hot ones,” Heyes answered. “How much?”

“Ye want clothes washed?”

The cousins looked at each other, and for the first time seemed to notice how splattered they were with mud, the grime of campfires on their cuffs, the grease of past meals on their shirts. They grudgingly nodded.

Kid asked, “How much?”

“Fresh hot water, soap, towel...” the man waved a hand at them, “wash all clothes, place to sleep?”

Heyes breathed deep, closed his eyes, and opened them slowly. “Yes, to all, and how much?”

“You got any drinks?” Kid injected.

“Very good hot tea.”

Kid shook his head. “Whiskey.”

“No,” the Chinese man shook his head with a frown. “Whiskey is bad for spirit. Tea… very good.

Kid glanced at the street, through the windows. The snow was really coming down, and it was comfortably warm here. When he looked back, Heyes was watching him. He knew the question and just shrugged.

“Alright. How much?” Heyes asked.

“Bath, hot and fresh. Towel, soap, bed… tea,” he counted on fingers. “Food?”

“For Chri—,” Heyes clamped his mouth shut mid-curse, as he did, Kid finished with “How much?”

“Six dollars and forty.”

Heyes raised a brow.

Kid nodded. “Give me two bits, I’m goin’ to get us a bottle.”

Making change with the proprietor, he handed Kid fifty cents.

“You want two bottles?”

“I want a bottle that isn’t going to poison us or make us go blind.”

Kid looked dubiously at the two coins. “You sure?”

“I’m sure that on top of all of our other miseries, blindness is something we should be avoiding.”

 Kid flashed a smile, slinging his saddlebags to his partner, he headed back into the cold. As Heyes watched him go, he found himself thinking. Been his first smile all day. Amnesty—it’ll only take a year. What the hell were we thinking?

When he turned back, the small, wiry, straight-backed man was peering at him through eyes dark as wet stones. This close, Heyes could see the fine stands of silver in his hair pulled back in a tight queue. 

“I, Chen Bao. Take good care of ye… and yer cousin?”

Heyes leaned back in his heels. Then looked fast across his shoulder, but no, Kid was well gone. A hand tapped his arm, and his own dark eyes darted back to the man watching him.

“Ye name?”

“Joshua Smith.”

Chen tilted his head a fraction, his braid swaying with the move. His lips pressed tighter together, almost like he was holding back from speaking.

Does he know me? Know Kid?

Chen blinked once, slowly, at Heyes before turning with unhurried grace. Ye follow. I show yer cousin in when he returns.”

“He’s not my cousin.”

Holding back the bamboo bead curtain, Chen inclined his head. “Ah. My mistake—yer brother.”

The hairs on Heyes’s neck prickled, his dark eyes narrowing as he measured the man.

“No need to say,” Chen murmured. “He is yer blood. I hear it.” With a subtle bow, he gestured to the tubs. “I bring water.”

On his return, Curry too learned the man’s name was Chen Bao, and he got a look that reminded him of Soapy’s when he knew Kid was outright fibbing when he answered his was Thaddeus Jones.

He had followed Chen down a narrow hall, the air growing warmer, carrying the scent of cedar, orange, and clove. The light was a golden amber, softened more by the line of paper lanterns.

“Careful… floor slick,” Chen pointed to Kid’s boots.

Slipping through another rattling curtain, Kid Curry paused, before him spread a floor of river stones, a line of wooden tubes, dark from use, and long enough for a man to stretch out fully. Steam rose from two, and between them was a table where steam also rose from a pair of small cups and a fat, bellied kettle. A small altar was tucked in a corner; from here, he saw the aromas he had smelled, for there were bowls of oranges and sticks of incense.

Pulling himself from the sight, which included more red-painted walls, he did a security sweep, but the only person present was Heyes, sitting still, fully dressed, and staring openly at him.

“Figured you’d already be soaking.”

“I’d like to go.”

Kid’s head pulled back, and he gestured to the warmth about them. “Are you crazy?”

“That man, Chen, he makes me feel like I am crazy.” And Heyes proceeded to tell about their encounter and how he felt positive the man had known he was lying about his name.

Kid frowned, looked back down the long hall, then down to the neck of the whiskey bottle sticking from his coat, and finally at his partner. “I get it, Joshua. But that snow is coming down, we leave here and we have a buck – ten. That isn’t goin’ to get us another place to sleep.”

Heyes pulled his hat, turning the battered Stetson in his hand, the silver ornaments winking in the light. “I could pry one and sell it.”

Kid shook his head; this same offer came up here and again, and every time he had refused. For Heyes to do that, he felt, would be no different than him selling his Colt. “We haven’t hit that bottom of the barrel, partner.”

“Yet,” Heyes flatly answered, standing and, with near reverence, hanging his hat from a wall hook, and began stripping off his winter outerwear.

Chen appeared, and he nodded. “Hot water be good for ye.” He laid a pine board across the end of each tub, went to a wall cupboard, and returned with a shaving mug, a mirror, and small bars of soap. He looked to the men. “Ye have ye razors.”

In the process of hanging his coat, as worn-looking as he was, on the hook by his hat, Heyes answered, “We do.”

Chen disappeared and returned with towels and robes. “This ye put on while ye clothes be cleaned.”

Hardly noticing what the man said, Kid was already wincing his way into the hot water, with a few oohs and ahhs.

“Stay here, enjoy. Madam Bao, my wife, cooks food to make you strong again.” He looked at the whiskey sitting beside Kid’s tub. “Please, no drink whiskey till after Madam Bao serves ye.”

“Of course, Kid,” Kid answered, thinking not planning on getting myself over the barrel, just enough to take the kinks out.

“Hot water do that for ye soon,” Chen said with a nod and left.

When Heyes looked over, Curry was still staring open-mouthed at the swaying, clacking curtain.

“What?”

The blue eyes, round as eggs, swung to Heyes. “I think he just read my mind.”

“Told you I wanted to leave.” He flipped a hand at himself; bare as the day he was born. “Little late now.” And began the same wincing, twitching dance to become fully immersed in the long tub. Once he was in a sigh of airiness, and comfort rose from him. Oh, I haven’t felt this warm in days.

Neither spoke; they lay back, eyes closed, allowing the water to work into the aches, the stiffness, and the cold to leave their bones entirely.

Reaching over, Heyes took up one of the cups, the liquid revealing a trace of green. He took a sip, and Kid raised a brow.

“Not bad. Feels good going down.” He flashed a quick grin. “Not as good as whiskey.”

“I can open the bottle.”

“Nyah, let’s honor the man’s request.” Heyes took another sip. “It isn’t bad, you should try it.”

Downing the cups, they fell to scrubbing, while they were Chen came to collect their clothes.

“Mr. Bao, would you pass me those saddlebags?” Heyes asked, having forgotten to pull out his razor.

The man brought it over, and their eyes met. Chen nodded slowly and thoughtfully. “Ye yi and yang were out of balance . . . the water mending ye.” He peered at Kid. “Soon food will mend ye.”

Once the man left, Heyes said, “Tell you, Thaddeus, Chen gives me the fantods, jim-jams, and willies all in one.”

Curry chuckled, sliding lower in the water to dunk under.

“Don’t laugh . . . this could be another Bloody Bender type place.”

“Well, Heyes, least will die warm and clean,” with another chuckle, Kid vanished beneath his soapy water.

Finished with the bathing, Heyes topped off the cups of green tea, and they leaned back sipping the nutty tea.

“Somehow reminds me of the chestnuts Grandpa Curry would roast.”

Heyes’ eyes narrowed, sliding to his cousin.

“I know, you don’t want to hear it.”

“It hurts . . . why would you bring it up?”

“Hate to tell you this, but it hurts not to also.”

Heyes peered into his cup, the floating bits of tea leaves, and shot it down. Maybe I was wrong to tell ‘em not to open the bottle.

“Don’t you think ‘bout them this time of year?”

“I think about them all the time.”

Kid nodded and slid deeper into the tub, his bare knees protruding from the soapy gray water. “I do too.”

“We should have stayed in the mountains.”

“Snow was coming down too hard; the game was going to cover.”

Heyes slouched in his water, not looking nearly as comfortable as before.

“What do you think Mr. Bao meant ‘bout and yin and yan?”

“Got me.”

A snort erupted from Kid, and he rose up refilling his cup.

Heyes glared at him.

“You need me to say it?”

The glare continued as Kid settled back in his cooling tub. “Isn’t often I get to hear you admit you don’t know something.” He peeked at his cousin, whose brows were low and mouth flattened in a tight line. “See, you didn’t need me to say it.” He took a sip of the hot brew, looking at the world as innocent as a choir boy.

After a few minutes, Heyes cleared his throat. “I miss the Hole and the boys.”

“I do, too.”

“I miss a safe place to sleep and food on our own table.”

“That I definitely miss.”

“I miss Christmas with our family.”

Curry gulped the last sip, not believing what he had just heard. “I do too, Hannibal.”

“I know you do... and I guess my rules about not speaking of our past aren’t fair to you.”

“No, and it isn’t fair to yourself.”

The silence enveloped them again, and the aromas of cooked meat and spice invading the bathing room.

Almost testingly, Heyes rubbed a finger along a bullet scar on his rib cage. Feeling beneath the water, he found the other on his hip, and without trying, his mind mentally tallied the others. These all healed, the deeper ones the raiders made . . . stealing our family. He shook his head and stood, water splashing over the tub edges with the swiftness of the move. Without looking to him, he barked, “Thought you were hungry,” at Kid.

Placing his palm-sized cup on the table, Kid sighed and rose from the tub. “I am.”

Heyes slipped into a deep black robe with wide, flowing sleeves and subtle patterns stitched in gold down the lapels. He wrapped it tight, closing it with a careless but firm tying of an indigo sash.

Coming up behind him, Kid grunted, “Now that is a sight.”

Only to have Heyes hand him a muted bronze, embroidered with pine needles and cranes along its voluminous sleeves. It fit him a bit snugger, but he tied the sash just as securely, and when he looked for his boots, he found them as gone as his clothing.

“You’re right, Thaddeus, that is a sight,” Heyes mocked with one of his sneering grins.

“Ah, perfect,” Chen said, appearing in his silent way. He peered at each man and smiled. “Yes. Yer improving.”

Heyes’ mouth pulled tight, the dimples carving deep.

“Yer not so silent, not usually. Soon ye feel like speaking more. Soon,” Chen stated with one of his slow, solemn nods, Heyes was starting to find as unnerving as the man.

And when Chen Bao walked away, motioning them to follow, Heyes raised his brows high at Kid.

At a loss, Kid only shrugged, snagged his saddlebag and holster, all that remained of his belongings, and followed.

Chen led them upstairs, the smooth wood a bit cold beneath their bare feet. At the top, it opened into a modest room, lit by more paper lanterns. But it was comfortable and warm, with rich food smells, only not scents they recognized... well, not fully.

A low black table sat in the center, surrounded by cushions, and across it lay bowls of dumplings, steamed buns shining with syrup, bowls of rice, chop suey, and cups awaiting tea.

Madame Bao came to them, her robe a silver cream with red blossoms trailing about the cuffs of the sleeves. Her hair was pinned with jade combs; there was sorrow to her beautiful face when she bowed elegantly to each of them.

“It brings me joy to welcome such fine men among us tonight.” Her hands trembled, but her chin lifted. “Our sons…” here her calm broke and then steadied, “they were fine men. We are alone since they gave their lives laying the iron road.” She peeked at the table laden with food and spread her hands. “But tonight . . . Chen, found others that were alone and tonight, we shall be together.”

Her honesty, both with her invitation and her pain, set the pair of outlaws back in their heels. They felt abashed by who they were before this woman, and fumbled over their thanks, with Heyes thinking how false their platitudes sounded.

Chen held up a hand, “Give them time, Shulan, their spirits need this night to align.”

She gestured with a smile for Heyes and Curry to sit.

As the couple took their seats at the square table, Chen said, Tonight is Dongzhi,” he said, pouring tea. “It is the longest night. We do not mourn… it is a night for remembering. It brings balance… yin, the darkness, yang, the light. Tonight, we honor those we have loved, and our darkness gives way to light.”

While he spoke, Madame Bao had begun filling plates. “On Dongzhi, we eat warm food to bring warmth into our bodies. We share sweet rice balls,” she placed two on Curry’s plate. “Tangyuan—they remind us family be round, whole, and never truly broken . . .” She set two on Heyes’ plate, “or gone.”

Heyes picked up a dumpling, turning it in his fingers. “You’re saying tonight is a new beginning?”

Chen nodded. “Yes. Even in sorrow, Hannibal, there is renewal for ye… and ye blood, Jedidiah.”

Kid and Heyes went completely rigid.

“I tell ye, Chen, not do this to people,” Shulan fussed. “So sorry, he...” she tapped a finger to her ear. “... hears the blood sing its words. Tells him who bad. Who good.”

Chen smiled, and it filled the area with warmth, even more than the boiling tubs of his bath house did. “When ye arrive, ask many questions, give time to listen.”

Heyes licked his lower lip, eyes slipping to Curry, who was actively wondering where his clothing was and why he had set his holster down alongside the far wall with his saddlebags.

“Chen, ye scared them.”

Heyes rolled forth a sly smile, too smooth, too well-used. “Well now, isn’t that an interesting trick you have there, Mr. Bao.”

Chen did the slightest shake of his head, speaking on with calm authority. “No trick. Long ago, in my country, a healer named Bian Que, placed fingers on a man’s wrist and hear blood sing. Tell him sickness. Life. Death. Bian Que not guess—not trick—the blood tell.”

His solemn eyes went from Curry, who kept peeking between the flavorful-smelling food, to his gear by the stairs, then to Heyes, who was locked on him like a rattlesnake considering striking. 

“Mean no harm. Some can ignore the singing. I cannot. It is gift, not trick. Same as a man born with keen intellect or a fast hand.” He took a breath and did the softest of shrugs. “Ye blood . . . it loud . . . like opera artist. Tired of being restrained. Wants freedom to be true self.” He looked straight into each man’s eyes.

Shulan, sitting to Heyes’ right, tenderly touched the back of his hand, and he recoiled, spinning on her. That was when he stalled out, froze up solid, his eyes tracing the fine lines in Shulan’s face, the quiet ache that gave her such a fragile . . . wistfulness. “We eat now.”

“Cook all this like I did for my boys . . .  Liewei and Haroan,” her voice catches, and she bobs her head with a smile, tears trapped, “eat with me and Chen. Using chopsticks, she lifts an egg roll onto each of their plates. “Please. My boys eat so many rolls, they very good.” She looked to the heaping bowl. “See, I make many. Ye both eat, very good.”

Picking it up, Curry bit it in half and began chewing. His eyes brightened, a closed-mouth smile spreading. Then he took another bite, and another.

“Ye like.”

“Yes, another?”

Shulan added two more to Curry’s plate, and they all began to eat. Her food contained a soothing magic—tightness slipped from their faces, shoulders unknotted—and words began to lift from the foursome, loneliness lifting from them like the steam from the dishes.

A dumpling halfway to his lips, Heyes asked, “If I understand you right, Chen, you’re saying our blood wants what we want.”

“Not want. Need. A man may put on another’s name, another’s coat, another’s smile. But a man’s blood knows the truth. And yours sings for freedom.”

Curry set his chopsticks down, dropping his elbow to his knee to lean forward.

“Sounds like we’re on the right trail, Joshua.”

Heyes nodded, sucking a bit of sweet syrup from his thumb.

“That be why I as ye to dinner. Ye are good. Do good for people ye do not know. Ye blood sings you will keep doing, until ye can be Hannibal and Jedidiah.”

The words sat between them like a lantern flame, fragile but burning.

Heyes’s jaw tightened, a retort poised, but Shulan broke in, her tone lighter, a balm. “Enough talk of blood. It is Dongzhi. Ye eat all I cook, or I’ll be insulted.” She dumped more chop suey on Heyes’ plate, still speaking, “Ye too thin. Ye not eat, I’ll scold ye for it, outlaw or not.”

There was such play in her words that it surprised Heyes into a huge smile and Kid into a snorted laugh.

She pointed at the pale dumpling he had been avoiding. “Do not spurn the tangyuan—brings back ye light. Stand for family, being whole, never broken.” Her eyes softened, sliding from Kid back to Heyes. “I have Chen, you have Jedidiah. We are still whole.”

Heyes stared at the dumpling, its round simplicity, and slowly lifted it, biting into it. Sweetness spilled across his tongue. He glanced at Curry, and the binding tightness in his chest loosened.

“The night is long,” Chen said. “But together, ye endure. That is balance enough. Yin and yang. Sorrow and joy. Hunger and warmth. Alone, ye stumble. Together, ye walk straight.”

Shulan smiled faintly at that, topping off their cups of tea. “Ye hear, yes? Even the wise man admits men cannot walk alone.”

In between bites, Curry asked, “Mr. Bao, our blood . . . ” His face scrunched, he peeked at Heyes, who shrugged, unable to follow his thoughts this time. “It sings about who we are and what we are and . . . ” He went through scrunching and looking to his partner again, and Chen Bao broke in, saving Curry.

“Yer blood sings,” Chen said, enunciating each word so they settled firmly in the room. “It sings yer true names… Hannibal and Jedidiah. Ye are family. Ye are weary. The world walks heavy on ye, and ye endure. Ye do good. Ye wish to be good.”

The words hung almost visible over the table, and Heyes felt the painful pull of the years—the cold trails, the losses, the running low on luck, and always from the law.

Curry’s eyes mirrored similar thoughts, and neither spoke, each knowing Chen’s simple description was precisely who they were.

Then Heyes quirked a crooked grin. “Wait . . Shulan, you called me an outlaw,” he flicked his eyes to Chen, “You saying my blood sing about that, too.”

From a pocket in his robe, Chen removed a tattered yellow paperback and handed it to Heyes with a rather boyish smile. “I use it to practice my reading.” 

Heyes turned the Beadles Dime Novel over, knowing what to expect, just curious which title it was: Hannibal Heyes & Kid Currey ride with their Devil’s Hole Raiders of Wyoming.

He smiled, showing the cover to Kid, “It’s the one where I have blue eyes and dimples... and you get to be dark-haired and gloomy.”

“Never figured out how that happened,” Curry smirked, downing another eggroll.

Passing the book back to Chen Bao, Heyes felt humbled by the ludicrousness of what he knew the author had made up about them between those pages. “Want you to know, all that is in there . . . that isn’t us.”

Shulan gripped his shoulder. “Course not. Ye good men.”

“Our blood says that,” he answered, some of that flat snideness coming into his tone.

Shulan smiled softly and leaned into him, and before Heyes could react, she had wrapped him in her arms. Warmth seeped into him that had nothing to do with the tea. “Chen says your blood sings very strongly this time of year,” she murmured. “It is sorrowful… me too.” She held him a beat longer, then released. “I know good people when I see them. It feels right having you here. That is good. Thank you.”

Chen poured amber rice wine into small cups, the lantern light catching it like liquid gold. “Tonight, we are family,” he said, voice calm and steady. “None of us is alone. Happy Dongzhi. May the light return to us all.” He lifted his cup to Heyes, then to Curry. “Happy Christmas.”

Heyes and Curry mirrored the gesture, hands tight around their cups. For a moment, the room was quiet except for the faint clink of china; they felt it—the weight of loneliness lifting, the promise that, together, they could endure anything. “Happy Dongzhi,” they said in unison, their voices steady, their hearts a little lighter.