Lost Trails

by Louis L'Amour

  The bed had a thin mattress with no blankets or even a pillow. Logan noticed that I had little in my war bag and asked if I had bedding.

  “I figured you would have all that,” I said, not knowing what to say.

  “Come with me and I will see that you are provided with bedding. It gets quite cold here winters and you will need at least three blankets.”

  Logan found some blankets, and gave them to me after I signed a paper promising to return them at the end of the school year. When the settling in got accomplished, I went to the dining hall for supper. That was what almost made me flee from the Garrett School. There were round tables. Each table had a master and his wife except when the master was single. There were six students at each table. I got stuck at a table where the master’s wife kept talking to her husband during the entire meal. He just nodded his head occasionally or grunted. The food was all right, but the experience awful.

  There were other things that were objectionable as far as I was concerned. Living with the sound of a bell telling everyone what to do and when was enough to drive me off balance. Just too much routine for one used to freedom.

  The first Sunday, I took off into the surrounding hills with my “Thunderer” under my coat. When I was a good distance away, I put in a little target practice. Pleased that I had not forgotten how to shoot, I strolled back to the campus to put the revolver away and talk to some of the other students I had met during the week. Just as I entered my room on the second floor of Jackson Hall, Mr. Logan followed me in without warning. Surprised, I whirled around and drew down on the poor soul, forgetting where I was. Luckily, I didn’t put a bullet in his heart.

  I could see the poor devil was scared out of his wits. “Sorry to scare you. Mr. Logan,” I said. “But you should not sneak into my room behind me like you did.”

  “McCarty, I came in here to have a talk about you having a weapon on campus. It is strictly against the rules at the Garrett School.”

  “Well, Mr. Logan,” I said. “If you think I will surrender my ‘Thunderer’ because of some silly rule, you might just as well start walking.”

  “You are forcing me to report this matter to the headmaster.”

  “Now, Mr. Logan, I would not do that if I were you. In fact, if you insist on saying anything about me and my ‘Thunderer’ to the headmaster, I will empty ‘Thunderer’ into your heart.”

  I felt sorry for the man because I gave him no choice. He left my room, and for the next two years he never came by. I kept “Thunderer” under my mattress except when I took off into the woods for target practice.

  The classes at the Garrett School were interesting and I enjoyed being on the headmaster’s honor roll. I particularly liked my senior English class. The master taught us all he knew about English literature, and that was considerable. I was at the top of my class, graduating summa cum laude. I spent the summer between graduation from the Garrett School and the start of my freshman year at Dartmouth working as a busboy in a hotel on the coast of New Hampshire. I made good tips and with the full scholarship I received from Dartmouth, my financial worries did not amount to anything and I did not have to think about stealing horses or rustling cattle. Robbing livestock was more of a challenge because all I had to do in the dining room of the hotel was smile and the tips began filling my pockets. Like Pat Garrett once told me, “Your buck teeth don’t matter a damn as long as there’s a smile around ’em.”

  Pat Garrett and I exchanged letters occasionally. He expressed how proud he was of my academic accomplishments and that he did not care a bit that I never did much in the athletic program at the Garrett School. “You can dance to Mexican baile music faster than those Eastern fellers can run,” he wrote.

  Dartmouth was quite different in many ways from the Garrett School. The classes were more interesting. I nearly got booted out before the first class convened when a group of upperclassmen began harassing me. They later told me it was “hazing.”

  When I arrived at Dartmouth, I had no idea what to expect, so I kept “Thunderer” under my coat. So when these snobby upperclassmen started shoving me around, I opened my coat, drew “Thunderer,” and scared them crazy by shooting a couple of shots near their feet. After that, the dean of men summoned me. I walked into his office and the bushy-haired, ruddy-complected man did not invite me to sit down. I knew I had to do some fast thinking and talking.

  “McCarty, I understand you found it necessary to shoot a weapon at a group of upperclassmen. Is that correct?”

  “Yessir. Where I come from in New Mexico Territory, I would not have shot at their feet for shoving me around.”

  “Well, McCarty, this is not New Mexico Territory and all those upperclassmen were doing was having their turn at hazing lower classmen. What you did was uncalled for.”

  “I understand all that now, Dean. However, when the incident occurred, I reacted in the only way I knew how. Like I said, if the same thing happened around home, those upperclassmen would not be breathing right now.”

  “I am forced to place you on probation, McCarty,” the dean said. “I also want you to surrender that revolver of yours.”

  “Well, Dean, I am afraid I cannot surrender ‘Thunderer. ’ Wherever I go, ‘Thunderer’ goes. I will not take it into class or other functions while I am here, but I cannot surrender ‘Thunderer’ to anyone. You seem to be forcing me to leave Dartmouth and I am happy here.”

  We talked back and forth for a while, and I finally convinced the dean that I would not surrender my weapon under any circumstance. He was concerned because my reputation as a scholar had arrived from the Garrett School and the dean did not want to be responsible for my departure from his precious Dartmouth. “Thunderer” remained hidden under my mattress until graduation, except for the times I went deep into the forests of northern New Hampshire for target practice. Most of the college boys found recreation in drinking. Mine was in shooting “Thunderer.”

  Again, I graduated summa cum laude from Dartmouth in three years. The department of literature at Harvard offered me a job as an instructor while I was working on my doctorate. They were waiving the master’s-degree requirement because of my academic accomplishments as an undergraduate at Dartmouth. Pat Garrett was beside himself with pride. He apologized for having no money to send because a couple of his business deals had not turned out to be profitable.

  But I was dubious about studying toward a doctorate. I had not been to New Mexico Territory in five years. I had not spoken Spanish to any sweet Mexican señorita in just as long a time. I had not danced a baile nor eaten a bowl of chile verde in so long, I had almost forgotten what they were like. I still remembered what the señoritas were so expert at. I suppose it might have helped if I could have gone out and spent a drunken weekend, but I never drank.

  I was still anxious to complete the degree and get back to New Mexico. I knew there would be little I could do for employment in English literature in the territory, but at least I could spend a little vacation time with the señoritas and see my friends around Lincoln and Silver City.

  My committee seemed surprised when I handed them copies of my dissertation. One professor exclaimed, “I say, McCarty, this is highly out of the ordinary. You have only been in residence two years.”

  “I realize that, sir. However, I am anxious to find a position at a good institution.”

  “Your rush to finish certainly takes me by surprise. I had thought you might help on my book on Shakespeare.”

  Inside, I had to laugh, but I kept my face as somber as possible. The professors were all alike. They depended on their graduate students for research so that they could publish more books. I was determined never to use students for researching the topics I was interested in. Research was what I found most enjoyable about the entire business of scholarship.

  In spite of their ruffled feathers, my committee allowed me to graduate with the doctorate. The hood seemed strange as I went by the chancellor at graduation. Since I had been offered a position as a
professor of English literature at Yale, my committee at Harvard was very impressed with my prospects.

  I decided that I would buy a rail ticket to Las Cruces and take the coach up to Silver. I would like to see Garrett, but that could come later after I had a baile or two and seen some of those beautiful Mexicanas.

  Remembering the amateurish train robbers on the trip east, I had “Thunderer” ready to pull out if another such occasion arose, but the trip was uneventful.

  I had written to Pat Garrett, announcing my arrival time in Las Cruces, so I was not in the least surprised to see him on the platform standing as tall as ever, waiting for the train to come to a stop. He looked older, but I could see the sparkle in his eyes through the grimy railroad car window.

  “Well, Dr. McCarty,” he said smiling as he walked over to greet me. “It certainly is good to see you after all these years.”

  “It is a pleasure for me as well, Pat. It is nice to be back in New Mexico.”

  “I hope you don’t mind, but I found you some work.”

  “What in the world are you talking about?” I asked.

  “There’s an outfit here in Cruces that likes plays and drama, so I got you booked to read Shakespeare at their next meeting. They are all excited since you are a famous Yale professor of litrachure.”

  “I am not famous, Pat Garrett. I might have been famous in Lincoln County a while back, but not for my knowledge and appreciation of literature.”

  “After I got through talkin’ to all those people last week, you are now famous for your knowledge and appreciation of litrachure. They agreed to pay you two hundred dollars for an evening reading to them. Did you bring any books of Shakespeare?”

  “Two hundred dollars? Pat Garrett, you are something. I can use the two hundred, and I did bring a book or two. Let me know when and where your drama crowd is having their reading. For two hundred dollars, I will read all night! Madre de Dios. Two hundred dollars, just to read part of a book. It sure beats rustling cows.”

  Pat had a cab waiting to take us to the Sierra Blanca Hotel. After a good, long soaking in a big copper tub of hot water, I put on some clean clothes and we had supper in Restaurante Clara. I did not have to look at the menu because I had been thinking and dreaming about green chili for seven years.

  We had a great time talking. Pat warned me to keep introducing myself as Dr. McCarty because he was sure there were still warrants out for my arrest. It was not as bad here in Doña Ana County as it was up north around Lincoln and Fort Sumner. It was Thursday. He told me that the reading would be held in the evening of the coming Saturday at the Opera House starting at 7:30 P.M. Pat told me not to worry because he was planning on being there to introduce me.

  Garrett had some business to take care of on Friday, so I took a walk around town looking for a monte game. I found one in La Cantina del Río. I had won close to twenty dollars when I noticed a man of medium height with a long, reddish handlebar mustache and wearing a dirty black Stetson. He first looked at my hands, and then began to look me up and down as if he knew me. As far as I knew, I had never seen the man before.

  Satisfied with my winnings, I started for the door. The man in the dirty Stetson stepped in my way. “You seem familiar, sir. What’s yer name?”

  Following Pat’s advice, I said, “I am Dr. P. Henry McCarty, professor of English literature at Yale University.”

  “Hmm, you sure look familiar. Have you ever lived around these parts?”

  “I am sorry, but I must ask you to step out of my way. I have an appointment to keep.”

  As he stepped back, I had a thought. “What is your name, sir?”

  “I’m Jackson Slocum,” he said.

  “Well, Mr. Slocum, it has been a pleasure making your acquaintance.”

  I touched my silver-belly beaver hat brim and walked as casually as I could through the door. As I looked around town, I saw a poster tacked to a wall by a hardware supply store. It announced the reading on Saturday evening by none other than Dr. P. Henry McCarty of Yale University. Just after sunset, I met Pat for supper.

  I asked him if he knew anyone by the name of Jackson Slocum.

  “Damned bounty hunter. The worst kind. He rarely goes out after a quarry unless the reward is for dead or alive. He seems to be very good at shooting wanted men in the back.”

  We finished supper and I retired to my hotel room to read. At breakfast the following morning, Pat promised to come by the hotel at least an hour before the reading was to begin. He had some kind of cattle deal he was trying to put together. He seemed bothered by the business and said he wished he had never bought a cow ranch.

  As he promised, Pat showed up at the hotel five minutes before six, ready to take me to the Opera House. He said that some of the folks would be early in order to chat before the regular meeting.

  We arrived a half an hour early after a cup of coffee. Pat introduced me to the people he knew and the rest introduced themselves to me. They all seemed impressed that I was a professor, and especially from Yale. I tried to keep conversation interesting, but for some reason all I really wanted to do was get the reading finished so I could meet Jaquelina, a beautiful Mexicana whom I had met that afternoon. I had only talked to her for ten minutes, but she had made up my mind for me. I wanted to take her back to Connecticut.

  Promptly at seven-thirty, the president of the Las Cruces Opera Society stood up behind the podium and rapped his gavel on the hardwood pad. He first introduced Pat, and then he went into a long presentation about Shakespeare, and then he came to me. There was little else to say except about my present position at Yale. He made one statement about my occupation not always being in academia, which caused me a slight amount of concern. However, with the lawman Pat Garrett sitting next to me, I forgot the worry.

  When the president had finished, I stood up and carried my book to the podium. Opening it to Hamlet’s soliloquy, I said, “It is a great pleasure to be with you kind people this evening.”

  I started to say something about Hamlet and Shakespeare when I saw Jackson Slocum come in the door and walk down the aisle toward me. I was just about to reach inside my coat for “Thunderer” when he stopped and pulled a folded piece of paper out of the breast pocket of his shirt. He took the tattered edges and unfolded it. As he waved the yellowed paper in the air, I recognized it as an old wanted poster with my picture on it in black.

  “You may be Dr. Whoever-you-are at Yale, but you are Billy the Kid out here in New Mexico.”

  Everyone in the audience gasped and looked at the man, who now brandished a “Peacemaker.”

  “I am puttin’ you under arrest, Bonney. Don’t even think about escaping this time.”

  I knew I could get “Thunderer” out and shoot him dead before he could get his brain moving fast enough to pull the trigger on his “Peacemaker.” But I didn’t need to. The audience stood up and swarmed around the bounty hunter. I heard his revolver hit the wooden floor and saw the people pounce on him. Just as Pat Garrett holstered his weapon, I saw bits of torn-up yellowed paper tossed up into the air.

  “To be or not to be, that is the question.” Or, it certainly is nice to know one has friends, I thought as I paused after the first line. I never enjoyed that soliloquy more than I did that evening. When I finished and got done palaverin’ with all the people in the Las Cruces Opera Society, I stepped outside where Pat Garrett waited for me.

  “Shall we go find some good tequila?” he asked.

  “No, thanks, Pat. I believe I’ll find a pretty gal named Jaquelina and see if there’s a baile somewhere in town.”

  “You may have a bunch of letters after your name, but you haven’t changed any, Billy.”

  “I sure hope not,” I replied

  The Tombstone Run

  John Helfers and Kerrie Hughes

  Dear Lord, I may never walk properly again, Nancy Smith thought.

  It wasn’t the attention of a well-dressed gentleman that caused her face to flush, although her trim figure
and attractive features had already drawn admiring glances that day. Nor was it the imminent threat of danger from some nefarious criminal—something she had faced more than once during her career with the Pinkerton’s National Detective Agency—that made her stomach turn and roil as she swayed back and forth. Since she had faced both train and bank robbers during her time with the famous law enforcement company, it would have taken more than a few thieves or petty criminals to unnerve her now.

  No, the circumstances that made her modest dark blue long-sleeved dress feel like a constrictive prison were nothing so exciting. Rather, the source of Nancy’s discomfort was the rocking, bouncing, jouncing stagecoach that she was traveling in. She tried in vain to find an accommodating position on the narrow, hard-backed seat sandwiched between two men and facing another woman and pair of men across from her as the vehicle shuddered south on the rough trail from Tucson to Tombstone. The newest of the silver boomtowns had exploded near the border between Mexico and the Arizona Territory, and attracted criminals like a herd of buffalo draws scavengers hoping to feast on the unwary.

  The Pinkerton Agency had been hired by both Wells Fargo and the Sonora Exploring and Mining Company to solve several payroll thefts that had occurred on the Tombstone stagecoach. With her previous successes at foiling train robbers near Dodge City, Kansas, and bank robbers in Houston, Texas, Nancy was a perfect choice for this job. After several hours on the trail, however, she was starting to doubt the wisdom of accepting this assignment.

  They had started the eleven-hour trip early that morning, when it was cold enough to see her breath in the crisp February air. After the sun had risen, the interior of the coach was warmer than she would have thought for winter in the desert. Conversation was practically impossible due to the clamor of the six galloping horses towing the stage from one way station to the next. At each stop, there was just enough time for Nancy and the other passengers to disembark, stretch their legs, and maybe get a drink of water before the next team was hitched up and they were off again.