Lost Trails Read online

  He had to say something, pretty quick. This lawman, by his talk, was probably not a local sheriff. The man was traveling in pursuit of outlaws; apparently a marshal.

  Ren found that he resented the man, but he wanted no trouble, and he’d not be able to lie about it.

  From the corner of his eye, he saw Cappie watching, trusting him to do what was best. He took a deep breath.

  “Marshal,” he said firmly, “I can’t help you. There was a couple of fellas, strangers, stopped by a day or two ago. One man asked me to shoe his horse. Didn’t say his name. I shod his horse, and he paid me. Said he’d be back. Don’t seem likely he’s your man, though. Nice fellas.”

  Cappie, listening at the window, smiled to herself.

  For the next few years, it was not unusual to have a knock on the door after dark, and the simple request:

  “Need you to shoe a horse.”

  The stranger never gave any names, and Ren never asked. The war was over.

  Dancing Silver

  Ken Hodgson

  Down in the big cities of Fairplay and Alma, most folks consider me to be crazy. They are all full of crap as the bottom of a year-old bird’s nest.

  I may be the last resident of Buckskin Joe, Colorado, a ghost town nestled in a rugged canyon high in the Rocky Mountains where each winter lasts until the next one begins, but I have a mighty good reason for staying put. A reason most men should understand fully; I’m waiting on a woman.

  Now, before you start thinking I’m touched in the head like those other idiots do, I reckon I ought to go back to when all of this waiting started and do some explaining. I’m going to tell you the facts of the matter about Silver Heels too. A lot of her story has become so bogged in legend that it doesn’t even spook the truth of what really happened here over thirty-eight years ago.

  My name is Ben Childress and I was a mere lad of twenty-five when I followed the big gold rush west to Colorado Territory. It was in the summer of 1860 that I happened to be in a prospecting party with MacKenzie Phillips when we struck pay dirt here on Buckskin Creek.

  Back in those days, news of a gold strike brought a passel of folks in a big hurry. Before the frosts of autumn painted the aspen leaves brilliant hues of yellow and red, a town had sprouted.

  Joe Higgenbottom, a beanpole-thin man with a braided beard who wore only buckskins, gave the town its name when he opened the first business. Naturally, the place was called Buckskin Joe’s Saloon. The bar was only whipsawed lumber setting on barrels. There were no glasses, everyone took a swig from a tin cup as it was passed around. There was no money either. Joe got to grab a three-fingered pinch of gold dust from our poke for each drink. Since he had bony fingers, most of us figured we were getting off cheap. We all had lots of gold, but whiskey was a precious commodity.

  I had lucked onto a rich claim that had both lode and placer gold, so I felt to be in tall cotton for a poor farm boy from Georgia. The War Between the States had begun, which cut off communication with my family. I decided the best thing I could do to help them out was to stockpile gold. No matter which side won, money would be a necessity. This gave me cause to stay here and observe the birth of the boomtown called Buckskin Joe.

  “I’m gonna hit it big this time, I can feel it in my bones,” Horace Tabor said to me over a drink late that winter. Augusta, Tabor’s wife, ran a grocery store they’d managed to put up in spite of snow that reached to the eaves of the only two-story building in town, the Angel’s Roost Dance Hall. Horace fancied himself a prospector. By allowing his wife to take care of business, he found time to visit saloons and keep up with important stuff, like where strikes were being made.

  “The first thing you’ll need to do is venture out of town,” I replied with a grin. I genuinely liked Horace Tabor, and didn’t blame him for being away from that wife of his once in a while. Augusta had a voice that reminded me of a wagon axle in need of grease. “Darn few strikes being made here in Joe’s saloon.”

  “A man can’t look for gold through ten feet of snow.” Tabor sipped his whiskey. “I’m putting together a list of where the best places to prospect are. This’ll save time later on.”

  “Phillips has the mother lode staked out. That mine of his is rich enough to make this town into the territorial capital.”

  Tabor stroked his bushy brown mustache, a dreamy look on his face. “No, Ben, MacKenzie’s hit a rich one all right, but I’m going to strike a mine that’ll make his look like a piker.”

  “I hope you do, Horace, I really do.” I lit a cigar and looked out the front window at perfect whiteness studded with drab, unpainted wood buildings. “Higgenbottom claims there’s over two thousand people living up here these days.”

  “Likely more than that. Augusta tells me we’re running a passel of tabs at our store alone. The only thing keeping us from selling more groceries is bad weather slowing down the freight wagons.”

  I puffed away at my cigar, only half-listening to Horace Tabor rant on about becoming wealthy. My mind had drifted back to Georgia and peach-blossom memories of Caroline Ames, a girl I once loved, who was now married to a captain in the Army of the Confederacy. I had plenty of money from my mine and couldn’t understand Horace’s desire for riches. What he had that I did not was a wife, a helpmate with whom to share life’s triumphs and tribulations.

  Even though Augusta had rougher edges than a bucksaw, I could tell from the look in her eyes that she loved Horace in spite of his faults. To my way of thinking, Tabor was already richer than me by far. I had found the gold I longed for, only to lose the girl of my dreams.

  “You’re staring out that window looking sadder than if your dog had died,” Tabor said, shaking me from my reverie. “And you don’t own a dog. Why don’t you tell me what’s got you in a funk? If it’s not woman trouble, I’ll eat my hat.”

  “Reckon your hat’s safe,” I replied without turning my gaze. “Coming West has cost me my love.”

  “Is that all?” Horace said with a dismissive shrug. “A dollar spent over in Lou’s will cure that problem right up.”

  I turned to my untouched whiskey. “And Doc Walker will charge five dollars to cure what Lou’ll give me. I’d prefer to suffer with only my feelings being distressed.”

  Tabor cocked an eyebrow. “I can see your point, but you still look sorrier than a starving hound. Why don’t you mosey over to the Angel’s Roost Dance Hall this evening and shuffle a pretty little lady around for a spell? Sam Castle, who owns the place, don’t allow his girls to do more than step on your toes.”

  “The last time I was there, every gal at the Angel’s Roost would cause a grizzly bear to run away yelping from pure fright. Ugly is stacked terrible deep over there.”

  “You need to get out more, Ben,” Tabor said with a smirk. “Sam’s got a real pretty new girl, just came in this morning on Lewis and DeAlby’s stage. Kitty Clyde’s her name. She dropped by our store and bought some necessaries. Augusta wouldn’t let me wait on her, for some reason.”

  “That’s because she’s got good sense,” I replied after downing my shot of bourbon. “But I will drop by the Angel’s Roost later on and check out your taste in women.”

  Two wagon wheels dangling from the ceiling of the Angel’s Roost Dance Hall each held a dozen coal-oil lamps that bathed the interior with wavering yellow light. In the center of the room stood a huge potbelly stove that Sam had built a wood fence around to keep the more energetic or inebriated patrons from scorching themselves. Benches and tables were along three sides, leaving room for a bar across the rear. Smoke from cigars, pipes, and lanterns hung heavy in stale air.

  A man known as Big Henry was pounding on an out-of-tune piano while Frenchy blew on some sort of brass horn, squawking away in a futile attempt to keep the few couples on the floor dancing a schottische in time with the music.

  I blinked my eyes to focus in the wan light, and began making my way around to the bar, where I would purchase a whiskey along with a few dance cards. That was how it wa
s done in those days. A man gave a card to the lady, who turned them in at the end of the night for pay tally.

  Then I stopped dead in my tracks when I caught my first glimpse of Kitty Clyde. Angels normally stay in heaven, but not always. My heart skipped beats as I watched a lithe blonde with ruby lips twirl by, leaving the memorable aroma of spring lilacs in her wake. I know a man must have been dancing with her, but the presence of celestial beauty had rendered him invisible. Kitty had high cheekbones, crowned with a delightful spray of freckles. Her eyes were blue as God’s pure sky. My legs felt rubbery when she gave me a wink before spinning away, graceful as a hummingbird.

  “She is a purty one,” Sam Castle said as I approached the bar. “That little gal gets an entire dollar for a dance. I’ve been hoping for a cute one, helps my business a lot.”

  “Yeah,” I said once I’d found my voice. “A lady like her in a place like this is rare as hen’s teeth.” I tossed a double eagle to ring on the bar, which brought a smile to Sam’s white-bearded face. “Give me ten of those dollar dance cards and a whiskey, the good stuff you keep back for yourself. I’ll be spending time here and don’t want to burn a hole in my gut.”

  Sam grabbed up the coin, then poured me a shot of Old Pepper bourbon, which was a vast improvement over his usual rotgut. I was so enamored with Kitty Clyde, I didn’t yell when he charged me four bits for the drink and gave my change in shinplasters. I planned on handing it back soon enough anyway.

  It took over an hour before I could hold the beautiful lady in my arms. So many men had heard about Kitty Clyde that Sam was forced to draw numbers from a hat to forestall gunplay.

  Finally, it came my turn. Kitty demurely thanked me for choosing to dance with her while gathering me close to her alluring form. Never before had I spent time with a goddess. I was thankful to my father, a true Southern gentleman, for insisting I learn the social graces. Our brief dance was a waltz, and I could tell by her smile that Kitty was delighted with my proficiency.

  “You’re a surprise,” Kitty said when the music stopped. “I didn’t expect to find a gentleman who is a great waltzer out here on the frontier.”

  “Thank you, ma’am,” I said. Before I could say another word, some burly galoot had swept her away for a polka.

  I did not get an opportunity to dance again with the lovely Kitty Clyde that night, even though I hung around until nearly three in the morning. Word of another gold strike would not have traveled so far and fast as did news of this beautiful girl’s appearance.

  Sam informed me later that many men working at distant mines such as the London, Horseshoe, and Crusader had quit their jobs just to come and hold Kitty in their arms, no matter how briefly.

  The lovely girl with sparkling blue eyes and infectious smile entranced all men who gazed upon her countenance. I was certainly no exception. The Angel’s Roost became my second home where I awaited, along with every other man in the packed house, a few brief moments of bliss, embracing a goddess who had ventured to this crude and remote mountain town to give solace.

  Then came a suggestion from my friend Horace Tabor. “You’re going to have to do something special to catch her attention, Ben. All women love getting presents, but in this case, it’ll take something really grand.”

  I knew he spoke the truth, but I had no idea what to buy for the lovely Kitty Clyde. Later, on a warm spring afternoon that set snowdrifts to melting while causing creeks to rise, after assuring myself Horace was in Joe’s saloon checking out strikes, I hiked the short distance to the log grocery store and asked Augusta Tabor’s advice.

  “All girls love getting an unexpected present that was meant only for them,” Augusta said with the enthusiasm of a natural matchmaker. “And I have just the thing.” She dashed behind a canvas that separated their storeroom and living quarters from the counter area, returning with a dainty pair of high-top black leather button shoes. “I’m betting these are just her size too.”

  At what I assume was my doubtful look, Augusta continued. “Now Mr. Childress, there is a tinker working out of a wagon two buildings down. His name is Dobbs and he does excellent metalwork. Have him fashion some solid sliver heels for these shoes and they will ring like church bells when your lady dances. I assure you, she will love you for being so thoughtful.”

  The fancy of angelic Kitty admixed with church bells caused gooseflesh to play along my arms. I quickly signed my name to a tab, then rushed to find Dobbs.

  “This thing you ask will take a lot of time,” the tinker said, squinting at the pair of shoes through thick glasses. “A very long time, a lot of work.”

  I knew where Dobbs was going with his complaining, so I headed him off. “I’ll pay you twenty dollars in gold and furnish the liberty dollars for you to melt down if you’ll have them ready in two days. After that, I’ll pay ten dollars.”

  The old fellow frowned. “I reckon if’n I work all night, I can have ’em done by then. Hand over the silvers, sonny, so I can get started.” He extended a callused hand. “I swan, you young whippersnappers just don’t have no patience these days. Now when I was your age—”

  “I’ll be back to pick them up day after tomorrow,” I said, filling his hand with silver. “Make sure those heels are solid and pretty. They’re for a mighty sweet girl.”

  “They’re all sweet, until ya marry ’em,” Dobbs said as I departed. “Then you’re in fer it, sonny.”

  I paid him no mind; any man smitten by love would have done the same. The old tinker had obviously long forgotten the compelling siren song a beautiful lady can play on a young man’s heartstrings.

  “Why Mr. Childress,” Kitty said happily while slipping on those beautiful new shoes with glistening silver heels. “They fit perfect and are so pretty. Please accept the next three dances with me as a small token of my appreciation.”

  “I would surely like that,” I answered. “And I’d like it a lot more if you’d call me Ben.”

  “Ben is a wonderful name,” she cooed. “I’ll be honored to address you by your first name.” Kitty smiled upon her new shoes. “And thanks to your kindness, from now on I wish to be called ‘Silver Heels,’ since no other girl has such fine dancing shoes as you have given me.”

  I studied the scowling faces that surrounded me, and grew grateful that Sam Castle had banned guns after a disgruntled miner from Oro City had shot his pardner in the foot to keep him from dancing.

  “Silver Heels, that is a grand name for such a comely lady as you,” I said, placing a hand on her trim waist.

  Big Henry began pounding on the ivories. Silver Heels gave me a look that spoke silent promises of future bliss, slid a soft alabaster hand into mine, and off we danced for the first of three lilac-imbued waltzes that I’d bribed the band to play so I could hold my love close.

  Later that night, as I walked to my cabin by the tawny light of a full moon, I paid scant attention to a small herd of sheep being driven into town for slaughter. Little did I know that the very devil himself had come to Buckskin Joe, Colorado, that cold and starry night.

  Old Dobbs, the tinker who had fabricated Kitty’s silver heels that pealed so delightfully on the worn plank floor of the Angel’s Roost, was the first to die of smallpox.

  Far too late, we were to discover that the two herders I had seen driving that flock of sheep had spread pestilence among us. Many recalled they were coughing badly when they drank at Joe’s saloon and ate breakfast at Link’s restaurant. At the time, this was no great cause for alarm since colds in the high country are common as snow. Soon, however, after the sheep drovers had hacked their way out of town and into oblivion, their legacy of death and disfigurement began.

  When Dobbs became ill, running a fever and wheezing badly, Doc Walker was called to attend him. It was then that the telltale rash was discovered, along with the terrible realization that we had an epidemic on our hands.

  Europe had been devastated many times by dread smallpox. Entire Indian tribes had been wiped out by it. Now this insid
ious, easily transmitted disease that often left a legacy of deeply pitted scars on those it did not kill had come to our mountain hamlet.

  The evening that Dobbs died, an exodus of the frightened—or wise—had begun. Furman Jones, the undertaker, refused to handle Dobbs’s body. “Drag him outta town somewheres an’ burn him,” the gawky, drunken scalawag said, holding a handkerchief to his face. “The ground’s froze too hard to dig a grave,”

  It was ironic that Jones became the next to become infected. He wheezed his way into the next world around noon of the succeeding day. The undertaker was correct about the ground being frozen hard enough to require blasting, but Doc set some miners to the task.

  “Burying the bodies quick will help to stop the spread of smallpox,” Doc Walker insisted. To a man, we agreed to do whatever was humanly possible to stem the spread of this horrible disease.

  “I sent Augusta to stay in Denver until this is over,” Tabor told me over coffee. “Smallpox will strike women and children same as a man. I’m not taking any chances with my wife.”

  This statement confirmed my belief that Horace loved Augusta, in spite of his constant ogling of every female he came across.

  Silver Heels. The thought of her becoming infected stuck me like a bullet to the heart. I had money aplenty from my gold mine, I could well afford to send my love to safety as Tabor had done.

  “Are you okay?” Tabor asked seriously. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “I’ve decided to send Silver Heels to Denver, like you did Augusta,” I said, standing to leave. “I just wish I’d thought of it sooner.”

  “That’s right nice of you. . . .” Horace’s words trailed off as I fairly ran to Kitty Clyde.

  I found my lovely lady stirring a cast-iron pot that sat on top of the stove in the deserted parlor of the Angel’s Roost.

  “Hello, Ben,” she said. “I’m glad to see you haven’t taken ill.”