Lost Trails

by Louis L'Amour

  Ren blushed red and studied the floor without answering. Will was nearer to truth than he might have guessed. Capitola Roberts had been a friend almost as long as he could remember. They had gone to school and to church together. Ren liked her boyish ways and her hearty laugh. He had defended her against teasing about her name, borrowed from the heroine of a current novel at the time of her birth. The Robertses were proud of their education. Ren had shortened the girl’s name to “Cappie.” Her mother did not completely approve, but tolerated the nickname because she approved of young Lorenzo.

  As a matter of fact, they had discussed the possibility of moving West. Cappie’s father had approached Ren about his intentions, and had promised a gift of a pair of young mules as a dowry. Ren had not shared that information with his own family yet, avoiding the inevitable teasing. But now . . .

  That’s how it had happened. Ren had been working as an apprentice to the blacksmith, rounding out his skills. The burly giant was impressed with Ren’s self-taught ability. But he also remembered how, in his younger days, the boy would hang around the smithy and watch him work. Sometimes he’d even let young Ren pump the bellows. It was a natural progression.

  “If you can fit a shoe hot, and do it right,” the blacksmith promised, “they’ll come from miles around.”

  It was a tricky process, forging a horseshoe out of bar stock, then reheating it to sear it into place against the carefully shaped hoof, melting the hoof’s edges for a perfect fit. Since there was no space for movement at all after the nails were applied, the horse was more comfortable than with a cold-nailed shoe. It would last longer too. The process was spectacular to watch, the puff of white smoke curling out when the hot iron touched the hoof, but completely painless to the animal, half-dozing in the shade. An experienced horse would come to realize that new shoes could mean more comfort.

  There had come a day when the master smith pronounced his apprentice ready.

  “You been a big help, Ren, but I know you’re plannin’ to move on. That’s okeh.” Many were using this Cherokee word for approval. “Where will you be goin’?”

  “West, I reckon,” answered Ren.

  “Wasn’t your brother out there in the war?”

  “Yes, that was John. He speaks highly of the country.”

  “Well, you’ll do well. You’ve got the touch. Some of the tools you’ve made are better’n boughten ones. Better’n mine even. Take any of ’em with you, to get started, if you want.”

  Ren picked a few favorite tools, shook the callused hand of his mentor, and set out for home.

  His father had ordered an anvil and a forge from back East, “to help ya get started.” It was a generous gift.

  Ren already had a wagon, which he had acquired early. His brothers had laughed at his “piece o’ junk,” but Ren had rebuilt and restored it over a period of time. It stood on blocks in the barn, ready to move. The wooden wheels were staked down in the creek behind the barn, to swell and tighten the spokes and the rim against the iron tires and the hubs.

  It was a small wedding, at the Robertses’ home, the grape arbor behind the house decorated with field daisies from the Robertses’ pasture.

  There was much more sentiment expressed on the Roberts side than among Ren’s family. His sister Peggy hugged the bride, and both girls shed emotional tears, presumably of happiness. The bride and groom changed into garments more suitable for travel, and Ren headed the mules West. It was only mid-morning, and he hoped to travel as much as fifteen miles before dark.

  The newlyweds had set out for the West. Ren figured they could cover fifteen to twenty miles a day, with something over seven hundred miles to cover. A month and a half maybe.

  That had been only his first miscalculation. He had not counted on the weather and the road conditions. It was late May, with good weather, and on some days they did indeed make twenty miles. But that was the exception, not the rule. Sometimes the delay was blamed on muddy roads, or on traffic. Sometimes, just difficult terrain.

  In Indianapolis, they paused long enough to inquire about the best routes, and Ren bought a map. Fortunately, his mother had steadfastly insisted that all of her children must learn to read and write.

  With the help of the map, it appeared that their most practical route would be almost directly toward St. Louis, avoiding river crossings. An alternative, traveling by water, was deemed too expensive.

  They did cross the Mississippi on a ferryboat at St. Louis, and they asked in more detail about the possibilities for a homestead in the West. An outfitter seemed a logical place to inquire.

  Not necessarily. The outfitter tried to sell them “everything you’ll need,” but soon realized that they were traveling on a shoestring. Ren did get an idea that had not occurred to him before. They could head for Jefferson City, state capital of Missouri. The route seemed, on the map, to avoid many areas of rough country and large streams. Besides, it should be possible to inquire there about homestead land.

  That leg of the trip went well, but it was now early July, the summer storm season. They lost several days in camp as the sky pumped itself dry. However, Ren could sometimes shoe a horse for a traveler, to add a little to their dwindling finances.

  In Jefferson City, he inquired at a land office as to available homestead claims. The clerk chuckled.

  “Don’t know where you’ve been, boy. There ain’t much not already claimed. Where you from? Ohio? Well, you got some things to learn.”

  He went on to describe the devastation due to the war, and the bloody events along the border.

  “Which border?” asked Ren, somewhat confused. “Arkansas?”

  “No, no, son. The Kansas border.”

  He related how the war was in progress long before the firing at Fort Sumter. He described the murders and raids by both factions across the two hundred miles of border between Missouri, with Southern sympathies, and “Bloody Kansas,” with Yankees moving in “like flies at a picnic.”

  Ren’s heart sank, but the man went on.

  “The good part for you may be that a lot of folks lost their homesteads—got starved out or killed. Look at the map here. Here’s Fort Scott, on the Kansas side. And a hunnerd an’ some miles north, past Kansas City, Fort Leavenworth. In between and on south runs the old Military Road, clear on down to Fort Smith, in Arkansas. There’s a lot of folks had to pull out along that border, especially around Fort Scott. I’d bet you could buy out some of those claims. Let me give you a name of a land-office man in Nevada.”

  “Nevada?”

  Ren was confused.

  “Nevada, Missouri, not the state! It’s a little town east of Fort Scott. You can ask this friend o’ mine about it. He’ll help you.”

  And that’s how it came about. It was much as the man had described in Jefferson City. The whole area had suffered. Many of the menfolks had been killed, on both sides, and others had given up in despair. The Kansas side of the border had now filled up with Yankees, the Nevada land-office man explained. His sympathies were thinly concealed, but the war was over, and he had his job to do. His advice was much like that in Jefferson City.

  The first choice of Ren and Cappie might have been on the Kansas side, but, as the agent said, little was available.

  “There is this one place on this side of the border.” He pointed to the map. “About here. ’Bout halfway between two towns, and that ain’t all bad. You could haul produce either direction.”

  “I’ll be mostly smithin’, I reckon,” Ren explained.

  “Well, that ain’t all bad either! Draw business from both ways. A smith, eh?”

  “Yes, sir. But won’t both towns have a smith?”

  “Don’t know. But if you’re any good at it, you’ll draw business. Lots of folks with horses and mules to be shod comin’ in.”

  “I . . . uh . . . don’t have much money to start with.”

  “Figgered that. But I saw your wagon out there, and I also figger you’re a hard worker. Somethin’ can be worked out.
”

  The place wasn’t in bad shape, but neglected. No one had lived in it for several years. It had been homesteaded, the agent explained, some years before, by “folks from back East.” Obviously, abolitionists. They had been virtually forced out. On one corner of the small house, there was a blackened spot. The agent saw Ren studying the scorched logs, and spoke hurriedly. Someone had tried to burn this cabin.

  “Now, pay no mind to that! War’s over, right? Heh, heh!”

  “It is as far as I’m concerned, “ Ren assured him. “but is this gonna be a problem? Why did these folks leave?”

  “There was some trouble, yes. Some of the boys got sorta out of hand, I guess. More or less scared ’em out. But that’s behind us, friend. Want to go into town and meet some folks? That’s what I’d suggest.”

  They did so, and found a friendly atmosphere.

  “A blacksmith? We sure could use one!”

  As the agent had said, there were two towns in the area, each a half day’s travel from the homestead. The location of a farm was important, because it must be possible to travel to town and back before nightfall to sell produce of any kind. In prairie country, this was obvious in the spacing of townsites.

  “Actually, you’ve got three towns within travelin’ distance,” pointed out the agent. “Horton, Richards, and Statesbury. And it’s only a day’s travel from the fort. Fort Scott, that is. You’d likely have business from all directions!”

  It had seemed too good to turn down.

  In reality business was a little slower than that. He would have to prove himself, and the only way to do that was to do some work that would prove his skill.

  Gradually, word seemed to get around. A rider would come past with a shoe coming loose after an obviously long and tough ride, and be grateful to find a skilled farrier.

  “Glad to see you here! I’ll tell some folks.”

  Everyone in the area knew, of course, that Ren and Cappie were Yankees. Whenever the subject came up, Ren’s comment was the same:

  “Hey, the war’s over!”

  People seemed to accept this, and it helped. Cappie was lonely, he was sure. The nearest family was nearly two miles away. But they were young and in love, and together, and made the most of it.

  They went to town sometimes, in the wagon. They made friends in the stores, which helped Ren’s business, and it began to look more promising. Ren was developing a reputation for his skill.

  It was in town that they heard about the bank robberies. Some brothers, who had lost virtually everything in the war, had taken to robbing banks, and sometimes even trains. They had been joined by others with similar losses, and now had quite a reputation. The “James boys,” they were called by folks in town, who often showed mixed feelings.

  “Them boys shouldn’t be doin’ this,” someone would say. “They’ll get in trouble.”

  “Yeah, but look at what the war done to them!”

  It was easy to see both sides of the situation, but to have such things happening in nearby locations was a nervous proposition.

  It was just about that time that Cappie shared some startling news with him.

  “Ren, I think we’re going to have a baby.”

  “Maybe we should move to town,” Ren suggested somewhat frantically.

  Cappie laughed at him.

  “We don’t have much worth stealing,” she pointed out. “We’re happy here. Besides, you’re getting started pretty well.”

  He was uneasy about it, but had to agree that they were happy here. Cappie’s observation that they were hardly a target for bank robbers was surely true.

  There were even stories of the “James Gang” giving some of the stolen bank money to families who were down on their luck, impoverished by the war. There are two sides to everything, Ren thought.

  His thoughts were not that philosophical as he lay awake on this night, straining to hear anything other than the night sounds. Maybe he had just been dreaming.

  But no. There it was. The soft rattle and squeak of saddle leather and the sounds of hooves on the dirt of the road. He rose quietly and tiptoed toward the window.

  “What is it?” said Cappie, wakening suddenly.

  “Sshh—don’t know yet. Jest be still.”

  In the moonlight, it now appeared that the space between the house and the barn was full of mounted men. He could hear the rattle of bridle chains and the jingle of a spur.

  Quickly, Ren pulled on trousers and a shirt and opened the door, slowly and carefully, keeping his hands in sight. A dark figure was walking toward the door, and stopped a few steps away.

  “You the horseshoer?” the man asked.

  “Guess so,” said Ren.

  “Good. We need you to shoe a horse.”

  Ren’s first inclination was to tell them to come back in the morning, but that thought did not last long. A couple of miles from town, from any other people, the yard full of armed and mounted riders who needed a horse shod. What was the logical, maybe the only, thing to do?

  “Let me get a lantern,” said Ren. “I’ll fire up the forge.”

  The men were dismounting, stretching tired muscles and talking softly among themselves.

  Ren quickly explained to Cappie that he needed to shoe a horse. He brought out the coal-oil lantern and led the way toward the barn.

  “Heard you’re pretty good at fittin’ a shoe hot,” said the man who appeared to be the leader.

  “I can do it any way you want,” said Ren. “Hot shoe?”

  “Yep, let’s see.”

  The feet were in bad shape, long overdue for a trim of overgrown hoofs.

  “I’ll go ahead with the trim,” Ren suggested, “and somebody can work the bellows to get the forge heated.”

  “I’ll do it,” said the leader, stepping around to take the handle.

  Ren could not avoid glancing at the man’s face as they positioned the lantern on a bench. The eyes were a striking color, a bright blue, which seemed out of place with his darker hair. What was it he had heard about eyes like that? He hadn’t been paying much attention at the time. None of his concern. Now, it was. The description he had heard fit this man exactly. Jesse James!

  There were only five in all, counting the leader. Ren tried not to stare. He didn’t want to appear to be looking too hard. He had heard that sometimes desperadoes kill potential witnesses.

  “Who else is in the house?” asked the leader suddenly.

  A cold chill washed over the back of Ren’s neck.

  “My wife. Please don’t hurt her. She’s carryin’ our baby.”

  A snort of contempt from the leader was followed by his next remark: “We don’t make war on women, son. She ain’t gonna do nothin’ dumb, is she?”

  “I don’t think so.” I hope not, Ren breathed to himself.

  The other men, four in number, lounged around the barn, resting while they could. They didn’t talk much, but he heard the name “Frank” a time or two, and once, somebody referred to “Cole.” Ren tried not to listen. He did not want to know any more about these men than was absolutely necessary.

  He worked steadily, and from time to time reheated and bent a shoe to fit better. He was glad that, while he’d waited for some business to occur, he had managed to shape some shoes from bar stock. In this way, much of the forging was already done.

  It was still dark, only a graying yellow in the predawn eastern sky, when he finished fitting the last shoe.

  “There you are,” he said to the leader as he laid the hammer on the anvil.

  The blue-eyed man stooped to lift each foot, examined each shoe, and straightened.

  “Good job,” he stated.

  He reached into a pocket, drew out a few coins, and poked with a finger of his other hand, selecting a couple.

  “Here,” he said. “We’ll be back!”

  He dropped the coins into Ren’s palm, tightened the cinch on the newly shod horse, and stepped up and into the saddle.

  Ren stared at the freshly
minted gold pieces.

  “Wait,” he said. “This is too much. You’ve overpaid me!”

  It was at least twice the usual fee.

  “Naw, I haven’t. Like I said, you done a good job, and we’ll be back.”

  The following day, a lone rider turned off the road and tied his mount to the hitch rail at the barn. Ren put down his hammer and stepped to meet the stranger. The newcomer removed his Stetson, and pounded trail dust from his trousers with the hat.

  “Howdy,” he said, replacing the headgear.

  He wore a silver badge on his shirt pocket. Ren couldn’t exactly read the lettering on it. It might have been a sheriff’s badge, or a U.S. marshal’s. The newcomer didn’t bother to introduce himself, but started to ask questions.

  “I’m trackin’ the James Gang,” he said bluntly. “They’ve been robbin’ banks and trains, killin’ folks in these parts, an’ headed this way. You seen ’em, you better tell me.”

  Ren was somewhat taken aback by the lawman’s approach. He tried to think how to handle this, but the man wasn’t finished.

  “You’re new here?”

  It wasn’t really a question, but a demand for information.

  “Yep,” admitted Ren, “not quite a year now.”

  “Where you from?”

  “Ohio.”

  “Good! I’m sick of havin’ people help ’em get away. Damn Rebs stick together. You’re a Yank. But if they’ve been here, you damn well better tell me about it!”

  Ren wavered. He’d been getting along well with the locals, knowing that most of them had Southern sympathies. It simply wasn’t a common topic of conversation. Some of his best customers had fought for “States’ Rights.”

  Back in Ohio, everybody had assumed that the war was about slavery. Out here, few people he’d met had ever owned a slave. It hadn’t been practical, he’d been told, to feed and clothe a slave all year so he could harvest crops for a couple of weeks. To these folks, it was whether the Union had the right to tell the individual states what to do.

  Two sides to everything . . .