Lost Trails

by Louis L'Amour

  “You’re in a bad way this morning.”

  “Been worse.”

  She brought a water-soaked cloth, instructing Joey to bring her another. The first she placed on James’s forehead. The cool, damp rag provided momentary bliss, and he relaxed. “Don’t mind my asking, what brought you up here?”

  The boy came with the second rag. They helped James remove his jacket and shirt. With a gentle touch, she cleaned the cuts on his elbow.

  “I staked a claim up here,” he answered.

  She worked quickly, then applied a bitter-smelling salve and wrapped gauze around his arm. She noticed his trembling and the jerky tracking of his eyes, and calmly said, “Joey, I believe that James would like a nap while I mend his jacket. Help me.”

  James felt grateful for even the slight support of her dainty shoulder and for the tiny hand the boy offered. Together they led him to a back room, where a bed stood by a window. As he sank into the pleasing comfort of the straw mattress and luxuriated in the feel of the cool pillow cradling his sore head, he thought he told them of his appreciation.

  By the lamplight, she looked younger and less fearful. “I don’t know your name,” he said.

  She started, but continued sewing. “Delia Hemming.”

  The cabin was furnished sparsely. A table and chairs stood near a wood stove with a single cupboard hung above and beside it to make the kitchen and living area. The china cupboard stood against one wall. She saw his gaze fall on the fine crystal goblets and platters inside.

  “I wanted to have my things,” she admitted. “They belonged to my parents. I—I feel closer to them this way.”

  “No need to explain,” he said, taking the chair next to her. “Your home’s your own.”

  The bedroom where he had slept had a window and was separated from the front room by a couple of pieces of muslin hung from the rafters. Another muslin partition at that room’s edge made a place for the boy’s straw bed. The child’s steady breathing brought a peculiar comfort and false sense of safety to him.

  “I’ve mended your clothes, Mr. Hickok,” she said, motioning to the jacket and shirt folded neatly atop her sewing basket. She held up a small sock. “I can hardly keep Joey in socks.”

  “I’m sorry to cause you trouble, Mrs. Hemming. And please, call me James.”

  “Joey thinks you hung the moon, you know.” She reached over to a table and picked up a magazine. She handed it to him. He recognized the Harper’s New Monthly that had first featured him. The artwork showed Wild Bill Hickok’s mare, Black Nell, standing atop a pool table. The amazing pistoleer, long hair cascading down his back, stood, his arm outstretched as if issuing commands to the horse. “He especially likes Black Nell,” Delia continued. “He’s wanted a horse of his own since I don’t know when, but it—” She cleared her throat. “We can’t right now.” She laid the mended sock on top of her sewing basket. “His pa loves Wild Bill. That’s one of his pa’s favorite stories. I should be using better stories, but this is easier because he likes it. I want him to learn to read. To love to read.” She stood, brushing threads from her brown calico skirt. “If he can read, he’ll always be free.” She turned her attention to him. “Are you hungry now?”

  He was, but he said, “I’ve bothered you enough, ma’am. I’ll just take my clothes and go ahead back to Deadwood.”

  She shook her head. “No.” Her tone was sharper than necessary. She moved toward the stove. “There’s an outlaw afoot out here somewhere. I can’t send you off on your own in the dark. You’re welcome to stay with us tonight. There’s a wagon going back down in the morning.”

  “That’s right nice, but Mrs. Hemming, I can take care of myself.”

  She smiled. “Ah. But you don’t have Black Nell, do you?”

  He chuckled, glad to find this serious-seeming woman had a sense of humor. “No. Fact is I used to have a pretty good mule. That mare’s a legend for sure.”

  She set about frying some bacon and warming beans. She brought him a steaming cup of coffee. Almost as an afterthought, she reached into the top of the cupboard and retrieved a bottle. She sat the bottle on the table before him. “It’s not much, but in your condition, it may help. I don’t drink it myself.”

  He poured a swig of whiskey into his coffee and took a sip. He watched her in silence for a few minutes, letting the liquor seep into his long-deprived system. “If you don’t mind my asking, won’t your husband be concerned if a strange man stays with you?”

  She concentrated on her task so long that he thought she was ignoring him. But finally she said, “My husband’s not come home. Yet.” She handed him a plate heaped with the bacon and beans as well as a thick slice of bread and honey. “Fact is, I’d feel better this night if you would stay with us.” Despite the heat of the stove and her cheeks being rosy from having prepared the meal, she shivered. Her expression revealed her loneliness and fear. “Ramsey Kinkaid is on the loose again. I don’t know where Oliver’s gone to—and—there was bad blood between them. And you are a lawman, aren’t you?”

  Before he could answer, Joey came from the back room, rubbing his eyes. “Do you feel better now, James?” His voice was thick with sleep.

  Delia put her hands on his delicate shoulders. “Yes, dear, James feels much better. He’s going to stay here with us tonight. Now you just go right back to sleep.” She kissed the top of his head and ruffled his blond hair. “Sweet dreams.”

  “Will you read me another story about Wild Bill?”

  “Not tonight, honey.”

  The cockeyed child focused his one good eye on the man at the table. “He’s my hero,” he said. “He can do anything. And he never misses a shot. I want to shoot like him.”

  “You shouldn’t believe all you read,” James said. “That man’s made up. Someone who exists only in another person’s imagination.”

  He looked at his mother, puzzled.

  “Pretend,” she said.

  “Make believe?”

  “Yes,” James said. “You have a far better hero right here. You should follow your ma. Look at how hard she works. Help her, Joey. Leave those guns to other folks. If you must use one, only aim at something if you mean to shoot it. And only shoot if you mean to kill. Otherwise, don’t aim the gun at all.”

  The child nodded and rubbed his eyes. “Are you gonna look for my pa?”

  “No, he’s not,” Delia said. “It’s time you were in bed.”

  “But he gave me something and maybe you can find him before that Ramsey gets him.” He handed James a pocket watch.

  “Where did you get that?” Delia’s face turned as pale as her muslin apron.

  “I saw him in the woods yesterday and he gave this to me and told me to hang onto it.”

  The adults fell silent, stunned at the admission. Delia, her voice barely a whisper, said, “The watch belonged to Oliver’s father. He always carried it with him. If he gave it to Joey, he must have known—” She let the rest of the sentence remain unspoken. She turned toward the stove and sliced another piece of bread. “Why didn’t you tell me before?”

  “You didn’t ask me.”

  “Weren’t you scared?” James asked.

  “Not till I found you, mister.” He accepted the slice of bread and honey that his mother handed to him. “But I’m not scared of you no more.” He took a bite and chewed intently. “Will it help you find him? Will you find my pa?”

  The plaintive request touched James to the core. “I’ll do the best I can, Joey. But I think maybe we’ll all do better if we go down to Deadwood tomorrow. You just get some sleep now. Your ma and I will have a little talk.”

  She took Joey back to bed, waited for him to finish the snack, then tucked him in and returned to James.

  “More coffee?”

  He nodded. “Maybe you’d best be telling me about why you’re so afraid of this Kinkaid fellow.”

  Then, the story tumbled out of her, words spilling from her as if a waterfall had been released from the granite hill
side itself. Kinkaid, she said, was her husband’s cousin. He had cut a man in Cheyenne but escaped from the lawmen there. When he found the Hemmingses, he insisted that their claim was his.

  As James sipped his liquor-laced coffee, he listened, watching the woman’s expression as the flickering light from the coal-oil lamp made shadows leap and tremble across her face. Her eyes—blue as her son’s but set straight in their sockets—appeared sincere. And yet, when she spoke of this Kinkaid, there was a strangeness in them, a terror that spoke of a fiercer fear than that of someone insisting on taking a mining claim.

  “Oliver said he’d be back to check on us in a few days,” she said. “He was taking Ramsey to town to put him in jail.” She fell silent.

  “He didn’t come back?”

  She bit back tears and shook her head. “It’s been several days.”

  “Have you asked around?”

  “I’ve done as much as I can,” she said. “I didn’t want to frighten Joey. He thinks his father has gone for extra supplies.”

  “And Kinkaid?”

  “He’d do anything to get back at Oliver, especially since Oliver took him to jail.” She rose and refilled his cup. “But things were bad before that anyway.”

  “Do you think that Kinkaid has murdered your husband?”

  She shrugged. “Maybe. I don’t know what to think anymore.”

  “You’re afraid he’d cause you and Joey harm now? Then why not leave?”

  “I can’t desert our claim. Too many others around here would take it as their own. And Nugget Creek runs through it. Oliver always said that would be our fortune—in that silly creek water. One man found a bunch of nuggets there big enough to set him up for the rest of his life. And what if he does come back? He might be out there right now. He’d be ashamed of me for leaving.”

  “It’s worth the risk to stay, then?”

  “Almost always, Ollie used to say.”

  He motioned around the cabin. “You know how to take care of yourself.” In that trait she reminded him of his Agnes, who had stayed behind with her folks in Ohio until he could get a claim staked and make a new start. He’d done one helluva fine job at that all right. Here he sat, in the home of another strong woman, being taken care of instead of taking care of things himself. “Things will look brighter in the morning,” he said aloud, although the remark was directed more at himself than at her.

  “I do hope you’re right.”

  The food settled his stomach and made him feel human again. He had the curious feeling she wasn’t telling him everything. But then, he often felt that way when he had conversations with women. He never knew the whole story. And he almost always felt uncertain about them.

  He stood, but he was still unsteady on his feet.

  “You rest,” she said. “I’ll sit up a while. I can sleep out here.” She motioned to a blanket. When he hesitated, she said, “Go on, now, get to bed.”

  Thunder boomed across the sky. Lightning flashed across the room and faded. The darkness thickened as the clouds gathered above and stirred the heavy air. The coal-oil lamp in the front room gave off a sweet thick smell, its flame low and throwing just enough light through the muslin and into the bedroom to give definition to shapes and create fluttery, queer shadows on the walls. The curtain flapped against the oilcloth window and a hoot owl called, its voice throaty and deep.

  A hand seized his shoulder. Hickok rolled with a practiced swiftness, tensing his muscles to spring at the first opportunity.

  “Now that’s more like it, Delia,” a deep, masculine voice said. The intruder moved closer, took Hickok’s other shoulder, pulled him close, and kissed him square on the lips. He tasted mustache, then spit and spluttered and cried, “What the hell?”

  Hickok jumped up and pushed the surprised intruder against the wall, using his arm as a brace against the man’s neck. “Who in hell are you?”

  “Who’s asking?”

  “Name’s Hickok.”

  The man choked and sputtered against the weight of the arm pressed to his throat. “Where’s Delia?”

  Hickok applied heavier pressure. The man coughed.

  “I’m right here, Ramsey. Me and my loyal old Winchester.” Delia pushed through the muslin, rifle barrel first.

  The distraction caused James to loosen his grip just enough that Kinkaid wriggled free and leaped toward the woman. She moved to get away and fired a stray shot. The bullet thudded into the log roof. Bits of bark and dust sifted down from the ceiling. Kinkaid had fallen across the bed, and Hickok caught his ankle as he wriggled to get free, kicking and cursing. He bumped Hickok’s injured arm, causing him to release his grasp. The outlaw ran toward Delia, who by this time had recovered and aimed the rifle straight at his chest. She was shaking.

  “You’ll never do it, Delia,” he said.

  “Stay away from me, Ramsey.” She held fast. “Stay away.”

  Ramsey laughed almost maniacally. It was so loud a guffaw that it rattled Delia’s crystal in the china cupboard. He nodded toward Hickok. “Does Oliver know you’re keeping company tonight?”

  She steadied herself, but her voice came in terse bursts, like a handsaw being pulled back and forth across a thick and knotty pine tree. “Where is he? What have you done with him?”

  He was near enough to grab the gun, but the hulking presence behind him apparently gave him pause. “Oh, your precious Oliver. Well, Ollie was in on it from the git-go. He got scared and wanted to stop. But it was too late. He knew all about that killing. He was in on it. Christ, woman, love is blind. He was always in on it.”

  “You killed him.” She uttered the words, her voice firm and quiet, as if she had always known what had happened.

  “You were a true prize, Delia. He didn’t need a gold mine. Someone who believed him to be pure as the Savior himself. What a treasure!”

  “And you thought you deserved a piece of that pie,” Hickok chimed in. He caught Delia’s eye as he moved toward the chair where his mended frock coat lay.

  Ramsey’s eyes glittered. He raked them over Delia, slim and attractive, even in her worn cotton wrapper. “Ah, now. You wanted it. Just as much as I did. Maybe more.”

  “No,” she said.

  “Ollie didn’t believe it of you, Delia. But I told him all about us.” The words came fast, the man’s tone as sinister as his meaning. “He died defending your honor. Tried to kill me for those words. But I cut him afore he could move. He died quicklike.”

  She dropped her eyes, and he lunged. She gasped as he grabbed the rifle barrel. They struggled. She pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. The rifle had jammed. Again, Ramsey’s maniacal laughter filled the room. He pushed forward against the gun, pinning her against the wall.

  A piercing cry startled them all.

  “You ain’t gonna hurt my mama no more!” Joey pointed the ivory-handled pistol square at Kinkaid’s back.

  “Joey,” Hickok said. “Remember what I told you, son. Don’t aim—”

  “’Less you’re killin’,” the boy finished.

  “You don’t want to kill him. Save your bullets for the squirrels.” Who knew where the youngster’s eyes were tracking?—especially in the murky half-light flickering through the room.

  “But he hurt my mama. I saw him do it.”

  “But don’t you make it worse now. If you kill him, you’ll hurt your mama, too.”

  The boy wavered, looking first toward Hickok and then at his mother, whose face shone with tears. Hickok pushed forward and spun Kinkaid around. He gave him a solid punch in the jaw. The man reeled from the devastating blow and fell at Delia’s feet. Joey, lips quivering, let the pistol drop. His own face crumpled with bitter tears. He ran to his mother, who knelt and accepted his embrace, and then wiped his tears away. “You are my big man now, Joey,” she said. “That was very, very brave.”

  Hickok took the pistol, placing it in his waistband. “Just like Wild Bill,” he said. He winked at Delia. The words hung in the air like gun smoke for a mom
ent.

  “Yes, just like Wild Bill.”

  She held her son apart from her embrace. “You got that from the cabinet.” He nodded. She scolded him for disobeying her.

  Hickok examined the Winchester. “It’s not jammed,” he said. “No ammunition.”

  “But I loaded it—” She looked at Joey. He looked away.

  “I’ve already been squirrel hunting.”

  “Oh, Joey.” Because she felt distraught and relieved all at the same time, she hugged him. “Don’t ever do that again. You tell me before you get an inkling to do such a thing.”

  Hickok used his belt to tie Kinkaid’s hands behind his back. Delia herded Joey back to the kitchen and made him sit in a chair. She retrieved a length of rope that Oliver had bought for his mining chores and helped Hickok tie the outlaw’s ankles together.

  “If he had to kiss one of us,” she said, serious as could be, “I’d just as soon it was you.”

  He had to laugh because she was such a sober sort that the way she said it sounded comical. His glee spurred her own. She giggled like a little girl, with high-pitched, musical cheeps.

  “I used to play dead and scare one of my little girl cousins near to death,” he said. “I got such a tickle out of her. She never could just leave me. She always had just enough fear of death that she tried to come to my rescue, and she’d always jump and be mad when I sat up and spoke to her.”

  “Good thing you’ve changed.” She said it with a straight face.

  He laughed again, and his mirth was contagious. But then she held her arm across her face as if laughter was not an allowable joy.

  In the morning, Hickok gave Joey a lesson in reloading and let him shoot one of his pistols. Despite the uneven track of his eye, the boy was a remarkably straight shot. He and the escaped jailbird had slept during the short night. Delia and Hickok both feared the man would awaken and bolt, so they took turns holding Hickok’s pistols on him.

  As promised, the neighbor, Martin Daley, came with his wagon, ready for his weekly sojourn out of the hills and into town for supplies. When Delia explained the situation, he said, “Well, I’ll be switched.” His gaze fell on Hickok, and he began to speak, but Delia gave a curt nod toward her son and quickly introduced Hickok as her friend, James.