Lost Trails Read online

  After a minute, Evie asked, “What is it, Marshal?”

  “I don’t hear no shootin’,” I said. “Them cowboys must be gone.”

  Evie put a hand to her mouth. “Oh, dear Lord,” she said. “I hope that doesn’t mean they’ve killed poor Bud!”

  Quicklike, I said, “Naw, more’n likely it means they got tired of hoorawin’ him and rode on.” The wind was out of the south, from the direction of the soddy, so I took a sniff of it. “Don’t smell no smoke neither. I’ll bet when we get there he’s just fine.”

  “I pray it’s so.” She lifted the reins. “Do we go ahead?”

  “Powder River and let ’er buck.” And when she looked at me sort of confused, I waved a hand and said, “Yeah, go ahead.”

  We moved on toward the farm, goin’ a mite slower now than we had on the way out there. When we got to the top of the rise, I saw the dugout in the hillside. Hundreds just like it were scattered over the Kansas countryside. You couldn’t get enough lumber from them scrawny cottonwoods along the creek banks to build a reg’lar cabin, and most places there weren’t even that many trees. So folks had to dig their homes out of the ground. Some dug up blocks of sod and stacked them to make walls, whilst others hollowed out the side of a hill like Evie and her brother had done. It makes for a pretty sorry habitation, but it beats nothin’, I reckon.

  I knew somethin’ was wrong, but it took me a second or two to realize what it was. Then I reined in and said, “You stay up here, Miss Evie. I’ll go look for your brother.”

  She’d stopped the buckboard at the crest. She looked scared again as she nodded. “Please be careful, Marshal,” she said.

  “Oh, I intend to,” I told her. I clucked my tongue at Grizzleheels and started ridin’ down the hill, not gettin’ in any hurry. That gave me time to take a long look around the place. I didn’t like what I saw.

  Or rather, what I didn’t see. There were no signs of any stampede. Hooves churn up the ground pretty bad, so it’s not hard to tell if a bunch of cows have gone runnin’ through a place. A few minutes earlier, when I’d been sniffin’ for smoke and hadn’t smelled any, I’d noticed that there wasn’t any dust in the air neither. A stampede raises a hell of a lot of dust, and it takes a while for all of it to settle.

  That had made me a mite suspicious, and now the lack of tracks made me even more so. On top of that, I didn’t see any crops, trompled or otherwise. Fact of the matter was, even though there had been a farm here at one time, it looked deserted and abandoned now . . . sort of like my heart when I realized that Evie Phelps had been lyin’ to me.

  But I wanted to find out just what the hell was goin’ on here, so I rode down the hill. Sure enough, as I reined in and the sound of Grizzleheels’ hoofbeats stopped, a man stepped out of the soddy. He wasn’t a farmer, though, and his name wasn’t Bud Phelps. It was Axel Skidmore. He owned a saloon and whorehouse in Abilene. We’d had a few run-ins. He didn’t like the fact that I’d sort of tamed Abilene down. Sure, it cost money to repair the damages when a bunch of Texas cowboys shot up the place, but those Texans spent a whole heap more than they cost. The reg’lar citizens appreciated what I’d done, but not so much Skidmore and his ilk. They were afraid I’d run off too much of their trade before I was through.

  “Skidmore,” I said with a curt nod. “You’re outta your bailiwick.”

  “I could say the same thing about you, Marshal,” he answered me. “That badge you’re wearing doesn’t mean a thing outside of Abilene.”

  “What’s goin’ on here?” I jerked a thumb over my shoulder toward the rise where Evie still sat in the buckboard. “Why’d that whore of yours decoy me out here?”

  “You know who she is, eh?”

  “Yeah, I knew as soon as she drove into town this mornin’ that I’d seen her somewhere before. Took me a while, though, to recollect that I saw her get off the train a few days ago, all dressed up and wearin’ a hat with a feather in it. You met her at the station. That right there was enough to tell me what sort of gal she really is.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Damn right. You can wash the paint off her face and put her in a farm dress, but she’s still a calico cat. She still purrs . . . for a price.”

  Skidmore grunted. “I didn’t think you’d seen her when she came into town. My mistake.”

  Truth to tell, I hadn’t figured out who Evie really was until I seen Skidmore step out of that soddy. That was when I put it all together, even though I was lettin’ him think that I’d known all along this was some sort of trick. When you’re dealin’ with a slick hombre like that, you grab whatever advantage you can get your paws on.

  “You still ain’t told me what this is all about.”

  “It’s simple, really, Marshal. You need to ease up on enforcing the law in Abilene. If you keep making it too tough on those drovers, they’ll take their herds somewhere else. That would ruin not only my business but a lot of others.”

  “You know good and well it’s gonna come to that anyway, once the railroad lays tracks farther west,” I told him. “There’ll be some new cow town closer and easier for those Texans to get to.”

  “When that happens, I’ll move too, I suppose. But it hasn’t happened yet, and for now, I have a lot of money invested here. I won’t have you ruining things, Smith.” He got a crafty look on his face. “Cooperate with me and you might start making a little more money than what the town pays you. But if you won’t be reasonable, you’ll regret it.”

  I shook my head. “I ain’t a crook, Skidmore. I ain’t scared of you neither.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Certain sure.”

  He nodded slowly, and then motioned with his hand. I wasn’t surprised when more fellas started comin’ out of that dugout. There were four of ’em, and they were all big as life and twice as ugly. I recognized ’em from town. They worked for Skidmore. A couple tended bar in the saloon, whilst the other two kept order in the whorehouse.

  “Boys,” Skidmore said, “convince the marshal it would be wise to join forces with us.”

  “Ain’t never gonna happen,” I said as I stiffened in the saddle.

  “Well, then, in that case . . . kill him.”

  The order didn’t surprise me. Skidmore was a ruthless man, and I had a hunch he was responsible for more than one killin’ in Abilene. As the varmints who worked for him started forward, I saw that none of ’em were packin’ iron. They prob’ly figured on beatin’ me to death. Even though it went against the grain for me to use my guns, I reached for ’em at that moment, knowin’ that no matter how rough those gents were, they’d back down in the face of a pair of hoglegs.

  Before I could touch the gun butts, a shot blasted. I heard the wind-rip of the bullet past my head, and instinctively hunched over in the saddle. I swiveled my head around and seen Evie sittin’ on that buckboard seat with a rifle in her hands. It must’ve been covered up in the back of the wagon.

  “Touch your guns and Evie will shoot you,” Skidmore said calmly as he took a cigar out of his vest pocket. “You’ve got a beating coming to you for being such a stubborn jackass, Smith.” His teeth clamped down angrily on the cheroot. “The way you strut around Abilene thinking that you’re tougher than everybody else . . . it makes me sick. You’re about to get your comeuppance. Take him, boys!”

  The bruisers lunged at me. I hauled back on the reins and Grizzleheels reared up, lashin’ out at ’em with his hooves. That made ’em fall back for a second, and as the stallion came down, I tried to wheel him around so’s I could gallop out of that trap. A couple of the varmints grabbed hold of me, though, and jerked me out of the saddle. I hit the ground so hard it knocked the breath plumb out of me.

  I got my second wind in a hurry, though. I knew if I didn’t get up, those bastards’d stomp me to death. I rolled over and come up on my knees. A kick grazed my ribs, but didn’t do no damage to speak of. I grabbed the foot of the fella what kicked me whilst it was still up in the air and dumped him on hi
s back. Then I came up sluggin’.

  Let me tell you, there’s somethin’ about a good fight that gets my blood to percolatin’. Way down deep in the heart of every man, even the so-called civilized ones, there’s a little bit of savage. If you go far enough back, we all come from barbarians, and in the midst of a fight, when your heart goes to pumpin’ a mile a minute and your breath hisses hot and fast betwixt your teeth and your eyes get this sort of red haze in front of ’em . . . that’s when the old barbarian in us all rises up and commences to smite his enemies. He has a damn fine time doin’ it too.

  Which explains why I was laughin’ as them sons of bitches pounded on me and I waled away right back at ’em. Them malletlike fists of mine shot out to right and left, in front of me and behind me and all around, as I shrugged off the punches landin’ on me and gave as good or better’n I got. Blood run in my eyes from the cuts on my forehead; my lips swelled where a fist landed on ’em. Bruises were already formin’ all over me from the fists that thudded into my body. I didn’t care. One by one, I knocked them bastards down, and when they got up, one by one, I knocked ’em down again. It took a few times, but eventually they stayed on the ground, moanin’ and twitchin’. If I looked worse’n they did, I must’ve been a sorry sight, because they looked plumb whipped.

  Then I turned to Skidmore and saw that his eyes were big and scared. He started backing toward the dugout.

  “That’s right,” I said. “You better run and hide, you whelp. You better hunt a hole like the snake you are.”

  He didn’t turn and run, though. He yanked a little pistol out from under his coat instead.

  I got my hand on the gun and twisted it aside just as he pulled the trigger. The gun went off with a wicked little pop. My blood was surgin’ so much, I didn’t even notice until later that he’d shot away a teensy piece of the web betwixt my left thumb and forefinger. I twisted and heard bones crack and Skidmore screamed as he dropped the gun. Then he looked past me and screeched, “Shoot him! For God’s sake, shoot him!”

  I glanced back, havin’ forgotten about Evie and her rifle until then. But I seen her toss the rifle down and grab the reins, and she turned that buckboard around a hurry and whipped up the mules. All of ’em vanished over the top of the rise.

  I grinned at Skidmore and said, “Looks like she don’t work for you no more.”

  Then I picked him up, carried him over to Mud Creek, and dunked him in the water until he was half drownded. I finally hauled him out, flung him on the bank, and watched him spit and sputter for a second before I put a boot on his throat and watched his face turn purple.

  “I got a feelin’ you wasn’t in this all by your lonesome,” I told him. “I’d be willin’ to bet some of the other lowlifes in Abilene put you up to it. I ain’t gonna kill you, though maybe I ought to. I’m gonna let you live so’s you can go back to town and tell all the other skunks and snakes and varmints that you can’t buy off Bear River Tom Smith, and you can’t scare him off neither.” I eased off a mite with my boot so Skidmore could get a little air down his gullet. Then I bore down again and said, “The only way you can get rid of me is to kill me, and you don’t want to do that, Skidmore. You know why?”

  He didn’t answer. Of course, he couldn’t, with my boot on his throat like that. So I answered for him.

  “The reason you don’t want to kill me is because some other fella will just come along to take my place who’s even tougher. Your kind may not realize it yet, but that’s the way it is out here in the West. Folks will put up with crooks and cheats and connivers for so long a time, but sooner or later, they rise up and put a stop to such shenanigans. There’s more honest, decent folks than there are the likes of you, and that’s why you can’t never win unless the good people get so lazy they let you win. That ain’t never gonna happen, leastways not in our lifetime, Lord willin’. So you can go back to Abilene and behave yourself, or you can get the hell out. Your choice.” I bore down a little harder with my boot. “Just don’t ever look crossways at me again, ’cause if you do, I’ll kill you. Write it down in the book.”

  Then I let him breathe again. The other fellas I had walloped on were tryin’ to crawl away. I hurried ’em along with a few well-placed kicks, then caught my horse and swung up into the saddle. I was startin’ to hurt now, but I didn’t care. I’d done a good day’s work and it wasn’t even noon yet.

  That work weren’t over, I reminded myself. I intended to have a cautionary word with Miss Evie Phelps too, if that was her real name. She sure as hell didn’t have no brother Bud; I knew that now.

  But when I got to Abilene, Evie was gone. The ticket clerk down at the depot told me that a gal answerin’ her description had bought a ticket on the eastbound that pulled out not long before I got back to town. When I asked the gent where she’d been headed, he told me, “She said it didn’t matter, as long as it was away from here!”

  I never saw her again. I reckon a gal like her can make a livin’ just about anywhere, if you can call it that, so I ain’t surprised she didn’t come back to Abilene.

  As for Axel Skidmore, he sold his business interests and left town too not long after that. He talked in a croak from then on and never really got his voice back, so I guess I stomped on his throat a mite too hard, which I reckon I’m sorry for. But I was riled up at the time.

  Skidmore leavin’ town didn’t mean that the trouble in Abilene was over, of course. Not by a long shot.

  But I’ve bent your ear long enough, so that’ll be a story for another time. That’s one thing you can say for the West.

  Folks will never run out of stories about it.

  Blue Horse Mesa

  John D. Nesbitt

  Author’s Note: The story of the Johnson County War of 1892 is well known in the history of Wyoming, as is the bravery of Nate Champion, who stood off an army of hired guns for the better part of a day until they smoked him out and shot him down. The most eloquent part of the story is his own courage, which had fifty witnesses, but history has also preserved the contents of a little notebook that Champion kept while he was under siege.

  Several years back, I heard a less verifiable story from the great writer Frederick Manfred, who in the mid-1950’s interviewed people in Johnson County who were close in time and family to the original participants in the conflict. According to Manfred (whose research culminated in his novel Riders of Judgment), there was speculation that Nate Champion might have had a child with a woman who was married to someone else. With all respect to a brave man, this story explores that possible lost trail.

  Nate Champion rode down from Blue Horse Mesa on a buckskin he called Tag. Of the half-dozen horses in his string, Nate liked the deep-chested buckskin the best for traveling across country. Tag, with his smooth lope, put the miles behind them. Now the horse was picking his way down the southern slope, where the pale sun of late March had melted snow on the rocks along the trail.

  Lonely country, it seemed today. In the ten or twelve miles since he left Powder River, he had seen few tracks in the snow. Up on top, he had seen nothing. As he leaned back in the saddle and shifted with the movements of the horse, he felt the pangs of hunger and along with them the downcast feeling that sometimes came at this time of day. He didn’t worry about a small thing like that, though; he could ride all day without eating, and he would usually get a second wind in the afternoon.

  There was plenty else to worry about. Talk had it that Frank Canton had a dead list of seventy men in the Powder River country. Some said only twenty, and others said there was no such a thing. Nate didn’t even know where Canton was, but he figured if there was any list at all, no matter how short, the name of Nate Champion would be on it. That was one thing to worry about—it could come at any time, a bullet in the back like they did to John Tisdale. Nate was a long ways off his regular range for someone to be stalking him here, and he had kept a good eye on his back trail all the way over, but once the big cattlemen got started, they knew no stopping.

&nbs
p; The other thing to worry about was Lou Ellen. He hadn’t seen her since October. Over a period of months they had met more than a dozen times on Blue Horse Mesa—never for very long, but the feeling ran so deep that he felt it would never end. Sometimes, it took her an hour or so longer to get away, but she always made it to their rendezvous—until the last time, when she didn’t show up at all. Since then, he hadn’t gotten word one from her. Between that and the trouble with Canton and the others, it had been a long winter.

  Down off the slope and headed back west again, he caught the smell of wood smoke. Cottonwood Creek lay up ahead. If he could get a look at the camp, he could decide whether to ride in or go around.

  Clearing a rise just enough to look over, Nate saw a picket line with a half-dozen horses tied to it. Closer to the creek stood a low canvas tent with a pile of firewood on one side and a freight wagon covered with a tarpaulin on the other. A gray-bearded man in a wool cap came out of the tent, straightened up, and looked around. When Nate got a full view of the man’s face, he recognized him as Ben Jones, the chuck wagon cook. He and another roundup hand, Bill Walker, trapped through the winter, so this would be their current camp.

  Nate gave the buckskin a nudge, then rode into plain view and gave Ben a wave. At the edge of the camp, he swung down and covered the last ten yards on foot.

  “Howdy, Nate,” called the older man.

  “Hello, Ben. Havin’ any luck?”

  “Oh, a little. And yourself?”

  “Same.” Nate glanced around the camp. “Where’s Bill?”

  “He’s downstream. We’ll see about makin’ one more set here before we move on.” Ben tugged on the bill of his wool cap. “Care for a cup of coffee? Somethin’ to eat?”