Lost Trails

by Louis L'Amour

  “Ah. The enemy. You saw how I handled Ingraham.”

  “Ingraham did not introduce himself to the desk clerk in Cody’s hotel as Mrs. Cody, only to be told that Mrs. Cody had arrived already with her husband.”

  Twain drew twice on his cigar. “Why, the old goat. I wonder she agreed to accompany him today.”

  “Appearances. There is rumor of divorce proceedings. Surrender the point and start again as from the beginning. It’s preferable to a complete and humiliating failure.”

  The humorist laid an arm across Roosevelt’s shoulders, steering him from the group. They strolled along the edge of the lake. “Pray tell me everything you know of Buffalo Bill’s indiscretions.”

  Roosevelt’s broad face flushed. “That would be indelicate, as well as a breach of my impartiality as a judge.”

  “Is the information confidential?”

  “It is a subject of conversation in every gentleman’s club in New York.”

  “Tarnation. I should be more sociable. Is it a sign of your impartiality that you have allowed Cody to bring along as much ammunition as he requires to make a contest while you deny me the same privilege?”

  “I hadn’t considered the situation in those terms.”

  The pair circled the island, Roosevelt muttering, Twain listening, and stopped at last where they had begun. Twain made a ceremony of extinguishing his cigar and bent from the waist.

  “I’m powerfully pleased to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Cody. You outshine the White City.”

  Louisa Cody was silent. Without changing expressions, she lifted a limp hand in a black silk glove. Twain took it and bowed more deeply, brushing the air just above the knuckles with his lips. He lowered his voice to a murmur. “May I trouble you for the loan of an ear?”

  She frowned, withdrew her hand. After a moment, she nodded slightly and turned her head a quarter to the left. As the others watched, one group now, straining in vain to catch a syllable, Twain whispered in her ear. She hesitated, then shook her head. He pulled back to rub his nose, then leaned in again and whispered.

  For a moment after he straightened away, observers were certain Mark Twain had failed. Then Louisa began to tremble, as if from an onset of the ague. Something escaped her lips that some thought was a cough. Hastily, she opened her reticule, withdrew a handkerchief, and brought it to her mouth, but not in time to quell the explosion from deep within her bosom. It was hoarse at first, but climbed to a shrill note that rang across Lake Michigan like the merry squawking of birds in their bath. Peal after peal followed, and she turned away and absolutely cantered straight at Cody, weeping and laughing with arms outstretched. He reciprocated. For a season after, she shook in his embrace, her mirth muffled against his chest.

  Roosevelt was the first to shake Twain’s hand. Then the dam burst and well-wishers poured in from Twain’s entourage and Cody’s, wringing his hand, slapping his back, and demanding to know the source of Mrs. Cody’s glee. Twain refused. “A conjurer must be let his secrets.”

  Cody loosened himself from his wife’s arms, kissed her cheek, and strode toward his conqueror, hand outstretched. “You are the American,” he said, “and I am but a poor showman.”

  Twain met his grasp. “Poorer, in any event. I’d admire to spend part of the prize on supper with you and your remarkable wife.”

  Cody accepted, but was alone that night when he met Twain in a private room in the Palmer House restaurant. Both men were in formal wear, Cody’s chestnut curls spilling well past his starched collar.

  “Louisa sends regrets. She took the train home an hour ago, with an earnest request for me to join her when the exhibition closes here. She’s eager to put the house in shape for my return. I believe I have you to thank for our reconciliation.”

  “A minister would have been less expensive,” Twain ordered bourbon for them both.

  “And for your entreé?” asked the waiter.

  “Brandy,” said the pair in unison.

  When they were alone with their drinks, Cody asked Twain what he and Roosevelt had discussed on the island.

  “He did most of the talking, at my insistence. He mentioned the shopgirl in New York, the opera singer in San Francisco, and the baroness in London. I disremember the others.”

  “That rascal. He’ll go far in politics. I don’t reckon he overlooked the little fracas here.”

  “Why a man should want a wife is a mystery,” Twain said. “Why he should want two is a bigamistry.”

  Cody laughed. “I drew that fire right enough.” He started to drink, then set down his glass. “Just between us, what did you say that busted her corset?”

  The other shook his head, taking a cigar out of his case.

  “If it’s that last shot’s got your hackles up, I’m sorry all over again. I admit I was stung by that show you put on for Stands with His Lance. I won’t say I missed that ace on purpose, but I’d never do a man intentional harm unless my life was threatened.”

  “I knew that. If Buffalo Bill wanted to shoot Mark Twain, he’d be attending my memorial service in the morning.”

  “We’re tight, then, and I won’t be offended. You saved my marriage, ole hoss, whatever it was you said.”

  “I asked her if she knew why certain men referred to their private parts by pet names.”

  “I’d bet my best saddle she didn’t know.”

  “She didn’t. I explained it was because they didn’t want complete strangers making most of their decisions.”

  Cody’s sun-burnished features turned a deeper shade of bronze. When at last he opened his mouth to laugh, every patron of the restaurant knew of it, and their waiter spread the curtains to investigate the source of the disturbance.

  Mark Twain and Buffalo Bill glared at the man. Then Cody looked at Twain, who inhaled smoke, let it out, and said, “Can’t a couple of Americans dine here in privacy?”

  After Blackjack Dropped

  Karl Lassiter

  “That’s about the damnedest, stupidest thing I ever heard,” the judge said, staring at the defendant.

  “I protest,” cried Thomas “Blackjack” Ketchum’s lawyer. “You’re malignin’ an honest man.”

  “Nuthin’ honest about him,” the judge said, then spat accurately into a cuspidor at the side of his desk. “You.” The judge pointed at Frank Harrington. “Tell me again about what Ketchum did.” The judge glared at both the defendant and his lawyer to silence them.

  “Yer Honor, I worked as conductor on the train. We been robbed twice before and this time I was ready for anything. When Ketchum—”

  “A point, Judge,” called the defense attorney. “You are trying the wrong man. This here’s George Stevens and—”

  “Don’t give me any guff,” the judge growled. “That’s Tom Ketchum, not some first-timer who didn’t know his ass from a hole in the ground. Now shut up and let Mr. Harrington finish. We all got better things to do. I want to get home for dinner ’fore it gets too late.”

  The lawyer subsided and the conductor continued his recitation of the train robbery.

  “He jumped onto the train just this side of Folsom, then forced the engineer and fireman to stop.” Harrington grinned savagely and smoothed his mustache. “Where we stopped was real tight, sheer rock faces on either side of the tracks. He couldn’t get back and uncouple the mail and express car like he planned.”

  “What did you do?” the judge asked.

  “I heard him walkin’ on the roof of the passenger car on his way back, so I grabbed my shotgun and got to the express car ’bout the time he did. He saw me, and damn but he was quick. He got off the first shot. I let loose with my scattergun and missed. I fired the second barrel and got the varmint that time.”

  “Damned well blew my arm off!” Ketchum cried. He held up a bandaged stump before his lawyer could stop him.

  “Didn’t blow it off. Not entirely,” Harrington said. “But it was danglin’. Heard tell they caught him when he run off.”

  “Never did,
” Ketchum said. “I was too weak. Flagged down the next train and surrendered. Sheriff Pinard took custody of me at Folsom, kept me on the train to the Trinidad hospital where they lopped off my arm.” Ketchum glared at the conductor. “You done me in, you son of a bitch.” He waved his stump around some more, but the judge used his gavel to silence him.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t blow off yer head!” the conductor shouted. “You wounded me! That shot you got off hit me in the left arm!”

  “Silence!” bellowed the judge. He straightened papers in front of him on the desk and continued. “Think that ’bout wraps it up. Not much left to say other than guilty!”

  “Your Honor!” The defense attorney jumped to his feet. “I protest!”

  “Protest this,” the judge went on. “On this day of September 11, 1899, I do order Mr. Thomas Edward Ketchum to be hanged by the neck till he’s dead. Sheriff Garcia, take the guilty party to the jail. Clayton, New Mexico’s ’bout to have its first hanging.” The judge brought his gavel down with a ringing bang. The few men in the courtroom let out a shout of glee that drowned out Ketchum and his lawyer’s protests.

  “I’ll get an appeal, Tom,” the lawyer said. “They can’t hang you for robbin’ a train. You didn’t kill anyone.”

  “Not this time,” Ketchum said. “Did before, over in Arizona. But not this time. Nuthin’ went right with the robbery. I was a damn fool to try it all by my lonesome, but bad luck’s been my mistress since my brother Sam was killed by that posse. I shoulda been with him. Together, we coulda got away.”

  “Keep your voice down, Tom. Don’t go givin’ the deputies anything they can testify to in court.”

  “How long?”

  “Until they hang you?” The lawyer shook his head. “Months. With luck we can keep ’em jumpin’ like fleas on a hot griddle till they come to their senses and let you go. Or at least reduce your sentence to a few years in the Santa Fe Penitentiary.”

  “Don’t want to go there,” Ketchum said firmly. “That’s where they took Elzy.”

  “You mean McGinnis?”

  “Elzy Lay. Don’t matter what name he got convicted under. He’s still locked up like an animal. And fer life. The son of a bitch shoulda looked after Sam better.”

  “You won’t be dead.”

  “What’s it matter? You ever seen a one-armed gunfighter?” Ketchum waved his stump around. “I can’t use my six-shooter fer shit with my left hand. I can’t escape and I botched killin’ myself twice. Why don’t they just let me do myself in?”

  “It’s only August. I’ll get onto gettin’ you out of this lockup. They got you confused with another Black Jack. You were never called that, and they confused the pair of you. That’ll be good for an appeal.” The lawyer stood and paused at the cell door. He turned and looked back at Ketchum. “You got money, don’t you? Your last heist was more than forty thousand dollars, gold and silver.”

  “All spent. That bother you?” Ketchum looked at his former lawyer with desolate eyes, and knew it did.

  It was bright and sunny in April, but George Otis, M.D., was an old man and felt his advanced years constantly from arthritic joints. No matter what he wore, he could never wear enough of a coat to stay comfortable. Still, Union County was warmer than back in Washington, D.C., this time of year. For all the cherry blossoms and hints of humid summer to come, the city was not this warm. Otis shuffled along, peering at signs through rheumy eyes until he found the sheriff’s office.

  He paused, rubbed his hands on his thighs, and removed the last of the nervous sweat there. Otis always felt this way when he neared another addition to his fine collection. One day his long years of study would pay off, and Professor Virchow would be vindicated.

  And Dr. George Alexander Otis would be hailed as one of the greatest forensic scientists in American history.

  He was almost bowled over when the lawman came rushing from the office.

  “Sorry, mister. Didn’t see you.” The sheriff peered at Otis, evaluating him and immediately discounting him as a threat.

  Otis didn’t mind. That was the way it always was on the frontier. Dangerous, deadly, though not as fierce in 1901 as it had been even twenty-eight years earlier when he had received some of his finest specimens. So much work had been done since then, so much.

  “Eh, that’s quite all right,” Otis said. “You are the sheriff? Sheriff Salome Garcia?”

  The stout lawman’s bushy eyebrows arched.

  “Do I know you?”

  “Uh, no, Sheriff, you do not, but I know of you. May we talk?”

  “I was on my way to the saloon. A fight’s gonna break out any time now.”

  “I am sure it will wait a few more minutes. I am with the Army.”

  “You?”

  “Not those fine soldiers who ride forth to do battle, no, not them. I am a licensed doctor of medicine and work for the Army Medical Museum.”

  “Never heard tell of such a thing,” Garcia said. He glanced toward the still-quiet saloon, obviously hankering more for a drink than to break up a nonexistent fight in the middle of the day.

  “It is not well known, true, true,” Otis said, rubbing his hands together to keep them warm against the spring breeze whipping down Clayton’s main street, “but nonetheless important. We are affiliated with the Smithsonian Institution. I am sure you have heard of that organization.”

  “Reckon I might have,” Sheriff Garcia said. “What’s that got to do with anything in Clayton?”

  “Your prisoner. The one about to be executed.”

  “You mean Ketchum? We’ll get around to stretchin’ his neck sooner or later. Been havin’ a run of bad luck with this and that. Truth be told, we’ve postponed the hangin’ three times already.”

  “I had not heard that,” Otis said, frowning. The wrinkles on his high forehead vanished among those naturally there. “Will the execution be forthcoming?”

  “You mean will we do it soon? I’ve heard rumors that some of his old gang might try to break him out. If they try, well, all I got’s one deputy. That means the judge’ll have to either approve another deputy or two or let me get a citizens’ committee organized.”

  “Come along, sir, and let me tell you of my work and how you might aid it and the future of law enforcement.”

  “Something to do with Tom Ketchum? He’s a killer, that’s for certain sure, but what’s your interest?”

  The old man took the sheriff’s elbow and steered him in the direction of the saloon, where he had wanted to go anyway. It didn’t take much to guide him inside the almost-deserted gin mill.

  “Looks as if your fight has taken care of itself,” Otis said. “Let me buy you a drink while I tell you of my research.”

  “Go on,” the sheriff said, pulling up a chair near the door so he could look out into the street. He might be taking a break, but that didn’t mean he could ignore his job entirely.

  The barkeep brought a quarter bottle of rye whiskey and placed it on the table. Otis poured, his hands a trifle shaky.

  “To crime,” he said.

  “To catchin’ the damn robbers,” Sheriff Garcia corrected, downing his shot.

  “That’s what I do. Or rather it is what I help fine, upstanding lawmen like you do, Sheriff,” Otis said. His eyes glowed with an inner light. “I run the U.S. Army Surgeon General’s Indian Crania Study.” Otis saw the sheriff’s blank look and hurried on with his explanation, taking time only to pour the lawman another drink. “We have endeavored to collect more than forty-five hundred skulls.”

  “Indian skulls? Why?” The sheriff looked perplexed. Otis was used to this reaction. It was more common than revulsion, though he encountered that also, especially in the upper circles of polite Washington society.

  “I am a phrenologist. I examine the bumps on the head in an effort to predict behavior. If the red-skinned savages’ nature can be determined, we can predict the behavior of those on the reservations.”

  “You mean predict which’re likely to go
raidin’?”

  “Yes!”

  “Suppose that’d be a good thing,” Sheriff Garcia said, “but I don’t see how that means a danged thing to me.”

  “Your prisoner. Thomas ‘Blackjack’ Ketchum, is one of the worst, is he not?”

  “Can’t say he’s that bad. A killer, yeah, but not as bad as some I’ve heard tell of.”

  “I want to examine his skull. Think of how this would reduce robbing and killing! If I can predict a man’s behavior from the phrenologic patterns, you would know the men who would commit crimes before they did so!”

  “Don’t take bumps on a head to figger which one’ll turn bad,” the sheriff said. “Right here in Union County, now, we got three or four I’m watchin’ real close. They’re just itchin’ to rob something. I can tell.”

  “What if your feelings were vindicated by scientific proof? You could prevent murders and robberies.”

  “Folks’d like that, not gettin’ themselves murdered or robbed,” Garcia allowed.

  “Exactly. All I would like is the chance to examine Tom Ketchum’s head after the execution.”

  “You could do it ’forehand,” the sheriff said. “He’s just settin’ in his cell feelin’ sorry for himself. He might like the attention of somebody other ’n the priest or a deputy.”

  “You misunderstand. I want to take his head with me. Back to Washington where I have a laboratory with measurement equipment.”

  “That’s not gonna happen,” Garcia said. “Look, I’m a bit antsy about this execution as it is. I never hung nobody before. And the chin music around town is that Ben Owen might be thinkin’ on gettin’ Ketchum free.”

  “A gang member? Could I examine his head too when you catch him?”

  “Look, Doc, I want this done with, and you can’t have the head. We ain’t like them cannibals in Africa.”

  “I am empowered to offer a suitable fee in exchange for the cranium.”

  “You’d pay for it? Nope, no way. The judge’s order says I’m to hang him and bury him. That’s all. I just want this over with as quick as possible.”