Lost Trails

by Louis L'Amour

  This certainly makes me long for the relative comfort of the train to Tucson, Nancy mused. But she had been assigned to bring the perpetrators behind these crimes to justice, and she had never failed in an assignment yet.

  Although if I were them, I certainly would not want to risk tangling with the guard on this run, she thought. She had only caught glimpses of the lean man in a long canvas duster, but she had immediately noticed his alert blue eyes and ready demeanor. He was also unfailingly polite, tipping his hat to her when she had boarded and suggesting that she take the seat nearest to the driver, so she wouldn’t be jostled as much by the motion of the coach as they traveled. Of course, if this is less jostled, I would hate to be sitting in the rearmost seat, she thought. Nancy had thought about requesting to ride on top of the stage, as she knew that was allowed, but since she was traveling undercover, she didn’t want to do anything that would draw attention to herself.

  As she always did wherever she was, Nancy had taken a moment to examine her surroundings, and found the situation not exactly to her liking. The canvas curtains were drawn to try and keep the dust down, but the only thing they blocked was her view outside. Nancy could catch only occasional glimpses of the stark desert landscape through the slim crack between the shade and the window frame. Of course, this also meant she couldn’t see if anyone was approaching.

  The rest of the passengers kept to themselves, usually napping in the stifling compartment during each stage of the trip, apparently lulled by the rocking motion. Only the other woman, a stern-faced matron wearing wire-rimmed spectacles and clutching what looked like a well-worn, leather-bound Bible, remained awake, her eyes darting around the compartment as if she expected to be accosted at any second. Nancy didn’t smile at the sight; she remembered all too well her first impressions of the West: the seemingly endless wide-open spaces, the dirty, ramshackle cow towns and mining towns, and the often less-than-genteel men and women that she had met in her travels. She had made her peace with this land and accepted it on its own terms, but she wondered if the woman across from her would be able to do the same.

  She heard a loud “Whoa!” and felt the rocking motion of the stagecoach lessen as it slowed. Nancy heard the whicker and snort of the team outside, and she peeked out the window on one side, then the other, trying to ascertain exactly where they were.

  As she looked, the frock-coated man next to her awakened with a yawn, stretching his gangly limbs and pushing his bowler hat back on his head. “Are we at the next stop already?”

  “I don’t think so, sir, as I see only desert to our right, and some kind of cliff wall to our left.” As Nancy finished speaking, everyone awake in the compartment heard a rap from up top, followed by the driver’s voice.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, there is a small rock slide ahead, which will take a few minutes to clear. Since we’re in pretty rough country, I would appreciate it if you would all stay in the passenger compartment, and we will be moving along shortly.”

  The driver’s announcement did little to assuage Nancy’s concerns, and she reached into her purse and grasped the handle of her Colt Lightning .38 double-action revolver, just in case. She heard muttered conversation from the driver’s box; then the stagecoach leaned to one side as someone got off and began rummaging around on the underside of the coach.

  At the same time, a rifle shot cracked out and the motion outside the coach stopped immediately. This was followed by the sound of several horses’ hooves as riders approached at a gallop. Damn, it’s happening right now! Nancy drew her pistol as she rose, crouching in the confines of the passenger compartment.

  The black-dressed matron regarded Nancy with wide eyes, looking at her as if she had just sprouted wings and announced that she intended to fly the rest of the way to Tombstone. “Madam, what do you think you are—”

  “Shh, I’m a detective.” Nancy grabbed the handle of the door on her left and pushed it open. She was about to step out when the rifle boomed again, and a puff of dust erupted right in front of her. At the same time, an arm curled around her waist and hauled her back.

  “Beggin’ your pardon, ma’am, but you are likely to get shot if you go out there,” the lanky youth said behind her.

  Before Nancy could retort, everyone heard another voice outside. “Everyone in the stage stay inside for your own safety!” It was the shotgun guard, his last words almost drowned out by the pounding of the approaching horses and a loud voice issuing commands.

  “Drop your weapon or my rifleman will be forced to perforate you! You there, reinsman, stand and deliver!”

  Even as she tried to formulate a plan, Nancy frowned as she heard the bandit’s voice. That doesn’t sound like any criminal I have ever heard.

  She wasn’t the only one confused by his demand, as she heard the driver also ask, “What?”

  “He means give up the box, gents, and no funny business,” another voice said.

  Nancy disentangled herself from the youth and used the barrel of her pistol to move the window shade aside just enough to peek out. Three mounted men with flour-bag masks on their heads pointed pistols at the top of the stagecoach, while the man in the middle kept talking.

  “To all ladies and gentlemen inside this carriage, kindly remain where you are, and no harm shall come to you. We are simply here for the strongbox conveyed by this contraption, and once it is in our grasp, we shall depart and leave you to continue on your way unmolested.”

  Nancy exchanged puzzled glances with the other occupants. Last I heard, Black Bart was still robbing stages in California. Has he decided to move east to richer pastures?

  The vehicle shifted as the two men moved around up top. One of the bandits nudged his horse close to the stagecoach to take the strongbox, positioning himself near the passenger compartment as he reached up for the prize.

  Nancy couldn’t reach him, but there was another option. As the man grunted with the weight of the iron strongbox, she stuck her pistol under the window shade and pulled the trigger, shooting at the ground. As she had hoped, the sudden noise and smoke spooked his horse, which launched itself and its rider into the air with a startled neigh. Although just as surprised, the rider managed to keep one hand on the heavy box across his saddle, the other hand on the reins, and his feet in the stirrups as his mount danced away from the stagecoach. Nancy pushed the shade aside and scanned the area for another target.

  “They’re shootin’ from inside!” the bandit shouted as he tried to regain control of his jittering steed. One of the other masked men, dressed in a ruffled white shirt and string tie, swung his pistol toward her just before two shots sounded. His shirt puffed when the bullets hit him, and he sagged in the saddle before toppling off his horse.

  “Let’s get out of here!” the man with the strongbox shouted, spurring his horse into a gallop.

  “Lord have mercy, you are going to get us all killed!” the matron said as she wedged herself between the two seats onto the floor. Nancy fumbled with the outside door handle as more rifle shots sounded from above, one punching a hole through the stagecoach’s roof and the place where she had been sitting a moment ago.

  “Everyone out on this side!” she called, ushering the unarmed passengers to the ground, right next to the driver and the guard, who had his pistol out and a frown on his face as he saw the men tumbling out of the coach.

  “Get down!” he said, pushing them to the ground while tracking one of the fleeing riders with his own revolver. He squeezed off a shot, but missed, just as another fusillade of shots sounded from above. With a fearful whinny, the lead horses reared in their traces and lurched forward, sending the stage into motion again and Nancy falling against the seat as she was trying to pry the last passenger—the other woman—from the floor.

  “What the—?” Nancy cried as the stagecoach tipped precariously to one side, sending her sprawling back against the seat.

  “What’s happening?” the bespectacled woman shouted.

  “I think the team’s lef
t the road!” Nancy called back. Indeed, the ride had gotten much worse, with the stagecoach bouncing along, and actually seeming to leave the ground in a few instances. Stowing her pistol, Nancy contemplated trying to climb through the window to the box to reach the reins, but her first grab at the window ledge nearly sent her flying from the coach as the front wheels jounced over a rut, sending her airborne for a moment and making her see stars as her head cracked against the doorjamb.

  Nancy fell back inside as the unguided stagecoach rumbled across the desert. The matron dressed in black was praying loudly, her grating voice scraping across Nancy’s already frayed nerves, but she didn’t say anything. As long as she’s out of the way, Nancy thought. But that still leaves the problem of what I’m going to do.

  A shadow fell across the window, and Nancy looked up to see the shotgun guard leaning over the neck of a running horse as he pulled up alongside the coach. The horse veered away to avoid something on the desert floor; then he deftly brought it back and urged it closer.

  Oh, my God, he’s not going to do—Even as she formed the thought, the guard grabbed the top metal rail of the coach and swung off his saddle, pulling himself up enough to get his boot onto the windowsill of the door. Just then, the stage hit another rut that sent it and those inside into the air, coming down in a crash of wood and bruises. Nancy had lost sight of the guard for a moment, and when she raised herself up to look outside, he was nowhere to be seen.

  Oh, no! Nancy thought, glancing behind the stage expecting to see the guard’s lifeless body skidding to a stop on the ground. But then the stage began to slow, and she heard a powerful voice cry, “Whoa! Whoa there!” The team responded to the command, and slowed from a full run to a gallop to a trot, finally coming to a stop in the middle of the hardpan.

  Taking a deep breath, Nancy opened the door and stepped out on unsteady legs just as the guard jumped down from the driver’s seat and strode over to her, his blue eyes flashing. “Are you all right, ma’am?”

  Nancy gingerly explored her scalp with a gloved hand, and was relieved to find just a bump rising where she had impacted the door, but no blood. “Yes, sir, thanks mainly to your timely assistance. That was quite a feat.”

  The guard accepted the compliment with a tip of his flat-brimmed hat. “I’ve driven these coaches as well as guarded them, so it wasn’t really anything at all.”

  The murmur of mumbled prayers reached both their ears, and Nancy looked back to see the woman still crouched on the floor of the stagecoach, still clutching her Bible and praying fervently. Nancy winced and tried to ignore her. “As if I didn’t have enough of a headache already.”

  “By God, ma’am, a headache should be the least of your worries. You’re either the luckiest or craziest woman I ever saw, and I’ve met my share of both. You’re most lucky you don’t have a hole in your head or elsewhere after you frightened that horse. What I can’t figure out is why you did that in the first place.”

  Nancy frowned. “Why, sir, would you think I was the one who shot that pistol?”

  The guard pointed at her gloved hand. “I’ve carried a gun for more than a few years, ma’am, and I know powder marks when I see them.”

  Nancy smiled. “Well spoken. Perhaps we could discuss this further on the way back to the road.”

  The guard nodded, his professional expression not changing one iota. “Now that’s the best idea I’ve heard all day.”

  He checked the stage and team, making sure nothing had broken and no horses had lamed themselves during the wild chase, then swung up into the driver’s box and extended a hand to Nancy. “Perhaps we should leave the madam to her own devices below?”

  Hiding her grin, Nancy clambered up to the seat beside him and settled in as he got the team moving forward with a practiced flick of the reins. “Forgive me for not introducing myself. I’m Nancy Smith.”

  “Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Smith, my name is Wyatt Earp,” the guard replied.

  “Wyatt Earp—the Wyatt Earp? The marshal of Dodge City and Wichita?”

  “Actually, I was just a peace officer in Wichita, but the other sounds about right.”

  Nancy was dumbfounded. “Pardon my inquiry, but what is a well-known gentleman like yourself doing serving as a shotgun guard on a stagecoach?”

  Wyatt turned to regard her with a wry smile. “You might call me a jack-of-all-trades, master of none, Miss Smith. The folks at Wells Fargo offered me a lift from Cheyenne to Leadville if I’d guard the coach along the way, and I took them up on it. When they were looking for someone to handle the run from Tombstone to Tucson, I offered my services again, and I’m headed back that way to rejoin my brothers in town.”

  Nancy breathed a sigh of relief as she fished her Pinkerton’s badge out of her purse and held it up in the sunlight. “Sir, am I ever glad I made your acquaintance.” She quickly filled him in on the case she had been assigned to, and the rash of thefts that had occurred on this run. “Obviously, that was why I had tried to spook that horse, in the hope that the rider would drop the lockbox.”

  “Wouldn’t it have just been easier to shoot the man instead? After all, he was in the middle of robbing the stage, and his comrades certainly were breaking a few laws as well.”

  Nancy’s eyes narrowed. “I prefer to use violence as a last resort, not as an automatic response.”

  Wyatt nodded. “That’s a decent enough philosophy, ma’am, but I haven’t found the criminals to be so accommodating.”

  Nancy cleared her throat and put her handkerchief up to her mouth to cut some of the dust as she continued. “Needless to say, the men at both Wells Fargo and Sonoma Exploration and Mining are quite worried about the effect these crimes could have on their business. I would be much obliged if you wouldn’t mind assisting in bringing these men to justice.”

  Wyatt’s features turned thoughtful. “Am I to assume that you will continue pursuing this matter with or without me?”

  Nancy summoned her sternest expression before replying. “I am quite capable of handling this on my own, Mr. Earp. However, your assistance would be welcomed.”

  The guard shot her another sidelong glance. “I thought you might say something like that. Assuming that we’ll be able to track these thieves down, it certainly wouldn’t hurt to solve a case like this when I arrive in Tombstone.” He nodded. “Once we get back to the rest of the folks, we’ll try and find a mount for you and see what we can see.”

  “I would appreciate that. Also, I’d appreciate if you didn’t let on to the rest that I’m a Pinkerton agent. We’re still not sure if the jobs are being orchestrated by someone on the inside, and I would rather not tip anyone off as to who I am.”

  “My lips are sealed, Miss Smith.”

  The trip back was uneventful; Nancy even spotted the horse Wyatt had used to chase the stage down, and they tied him to the back of the stage and brought him back as well. When they reached the road, they soon found that the others had cleared the small rockfall away and taken care of the dead bandit by covering him with a blanket.

  Wyatt brought the team to a halt and helped Nancy down, then handed the reins over to the driver. “Careful, Bill, it looks like the brake handle’s been shot away.”

  “Shoot, so that’s why the team took off.” The driver shoved his battered, shapeless hat back on his head and frowned. “I’ll have to rig a new one before we get moving again. Shouldn’t take too long, though.”

  “That’s good, since the able Miss Smith and I have some unfinished business to take care of—speaking of which, Miss Smith, what exactly are you doing there?”

  Nancy stood over the blanket-covered body on the ground. “The rest of you may wish to take a few steps back while I take a look at this man.” She saw Wyatt and the driver exchange glances; then she knelt and drew the blanket back to reveal the bandit’s face. The flour-sack mask still covered his face, and she untied it and pulled it off, careful not to reveal any of his body, especially the wounds that had ended his lif
e.

  The man’s handsome face was unfamiliar, but she noticed that his black mustache was waxed and his hair smelled of a popular pomade that could be purchased in any town with a general store. Nancy lifted up the sides of the blanket, patting down his pockets for any identifying items, but came up with nothing. She spotted laundry marks on the inside of his shirt collar, but it would take far too long to trace them. Fingering the material, she discovered it was made of high-quality cotton, not the rough linen or homespun shirt she expected to find. Peeking at his legs, she saw that his pants were of the same fine quality. A gentleman robber, out here?

  A shadow fell over her, and she looked up to see Wyatt standing over her, a strange look on his face. “Is something wrong, Mr. Earp?”

  “I’d certainly say so. I’ve seen this man before.”

  “Well, given the nature of his profession, I’m not surprised.”

  Wyatt shook his head. “No no, he wasn’t a criminal—at least, not when I saw him last. I saw him on the stage in Dodge City about a year ago, give or take. Carstairs—Carter—Carson Bramley, that was his name. Did a pretty good Macbeth, as I recall.”

  Nancy rearranged the blanket before she stood. “You’re saying that this man was an actor?”

  “I am.”

  “Then what is he doing robbing a stagecoach in the middle of nowhere? Although that would certainly explain his choice of language.”

  “Agreed, but your question is the puzzler.” Wyatt trotted a few yards into the desert and examined the ground. “We can follow the tracks of the rest, especially the one carrying the strongbox.” He walked back to the stage and recovered his short-barreled shotgun. “Bill, I’m going to need to borrow one of the team for a bit, but I expect those bandits haven’t gone too far.”