Lost Trails

by Louis L'Amour

  Sheriff Bullock stepped out onto the sidewalk, adjusted his hat, and pulled the door shut behind him. As was his custom, his eyes slowly surveyed the main street. He noted four automobiles parked along the muddy street. Not very long ago these spaces were only used by horses and wagons. Times sure are changing. He looked up at the electrical and telephone wires hanging from poles and running from building to building. He heard the phone behind the closed door of his office begin to ring and shook his head. Probably Jensen calling to see what’s taking me so long. I wonder what’s so damned important this early on a Saturday afternoon. He shrugged and strode down the board sidewalk toward Milo Jensen’s Buffalo Bull Saloon.

  In passing he admired two spotless automobiles. Saturday, and even though the bank wasn’t open, Burnell Finney, the owner, had his black Maxwell parked in front to show it off. The long blue Packard told him Finney’s long-time crony, R. C. Gardner, was with him.

  I still can’t figure how those two keep their cars so clean with all this mud on the roads. Finney must have one of his employees polish his every day.

  The sheriff stopped and rattled the knob on the bank door, then put his hands up beside his face and leaned to the glass to see if he could see anything inside. The bank was dark, but there was a dim light showing in the window of the bank president’s office in the back.

  Gardner and Finney are probably lying to each other about who has the best car, like the rest of us do about horses. I suppose they’re drinking expensive whiskey, smoking good cigars, and figuring out ways to make more money. I’m glad I took some from him in that game last night.

  He pushed away from the door and looked at the two other cars as he passed them. He didn’t recognize either of them, but noted the topless black Ford was heavily encrusted with mud, inside and out. Now that’s what a car should look like when it’s been driven on rough roads. That one’s come a ways to get here.

  Bullock sighed. Yes, indeedie, things sure are different. He turned and continued his walk to the Buffalo Bull Saloon. He paused on the sidewalk in front and looked over the tops of the batwing doors into the dimly lit interior of the saloon.

  Milo Jensen, the owner and daytime bartender, leaned against the far end of the bar.

  A nattily dressed young man with a mud-spattered derby cocked down over one eye sat at a table using a cloth to wipe at the mud on his shoes. He took a drink from a mug of beer, said something to Jensen, and continued to work on his shoes.

  Annie, a young woman who waited tables and worked as a part-time bartender, sat at a nearby table, a handkerchief held to her face, obviously crying. Annie must be part of the problem.

  Another man sat slouched at a table, his head resting on his arm. He appeared to be asleep. A muddy derby lay beside him on the table and two mud-spattered duster coats were draped over empty chairs.

  There’s not much doubt about who was riding in that muddy car. Best get in and see what’s happening. Bullock squared his shoulders, patted the gun in his pocket, and took a deep breath as he pushed in through the doors and stopped at the near end of the bar.

  Milo Jensen said something to the man who was working on his dirty shoes and walked down to where Bullock stood. “Coffee, Sheriff?” he asked loudly. “What took you so long?” he whispered and rolled his eyes over his shoulder. “That dude back there cleaning his shoes is making me damned nervous. He and Annie had a hell of a shouting match a few minutes ago.”

  Bullock shook his head. “No, Milo, give me a mug of beer,” he said, loud enough for the other man to hear.

  “Isn’t it a bit early for a beer, Sheriff?” Jensen asked, putting emphasis on the word “sheriff.”

  “You don’t look like my mother, Milo, so don’t be talking like her,” Bullock admonished.

  Jensen nodded. “One mug of beer coming up, Sheriff.”

  “Hey, Sheriff!” the man in the dirty derby shouted, looking up from the work on his shoes.

  Bullock slowly turned his head and looked at the man. He had a thin, sallow face and a narrow brown mustache that reminded Bullock of a caterpillar. “Yes?”

  “Did you know that Annie here was once my girl?” he asked, hooking a thumb at the woman who was now glaring at him.

  Bullock shook his head. “No, can’t say that I did.”

  “Back in Minneapolis, it was.”

  Annie muttered something and wiped at her eyes.

  “Shut up or I’ll give you a taste of my hand!” the man shouted, and swung his hand in the general direction of the scowling young woman.

  Bullock started to speak, but decided to wait and see what would happen. He didn’t know anything about Annie’s background and to him she was a young woman with an honest job.

  Jensen set a mug of beer in front of him. “That’ll be a nickel, Sheriff.”

  Bullock dropped a handful of coins on the bar. “Would you or your friend care for a drink?” he called to the man wiping at his shoes.

  “I think Leroy’s had enough, but I’ll take a shot of whiskey as long as you’re buying.”

  Jensen nodded, brought up a shot glass, filled it from a nearby bottle, and carried it over to the table where the man was buffing the toes of his shoes. He returned to the bar and selected a coin from the bar in front of the sheriff. “Two bits.”

  “Your friend’s name is Leroy, but I didn’t catch yours.” Bullock said, and took a sip of beer.

  “That’s because I haven’t given it,” the man answered, and downed the shot of whiskey.

  “So you haven’t,” Bullock agreed. “What brings you boys way out here?”

  “We were in Deadwood and someone told me Annie was working here. Since we were going to pass this way, I decided to pay her a visit. Us having been betrothed and all.”

  Bullock nodded. “I see. Would you care for another shot of whiskey?”

  The man smiled slightly as he stood, gave each shoe a final buff on the back of his pant legs, walked to the bar, and slid his glass to the center of it. “I’m told you’re the man who cleaned up Deadwood back in the seventies, Sheriff Bullock. Story is that you were one hell of a lawman.”

  Bullock nodded. “It seems you know my name, but I still don’t know yours.” He made a motion for Jensen to refill the man’s glass.

  “What difference does my name make?”

  “When I’m talking to a man and buying him whiskey, I like to call him by name.”

  “You think if you keep buying me whiskey, you’ll be able to get me in the same condition as Leroy over there? It’d make your job a lot easier, wouldn’t it?”

  Bullock smiled, shrugged, and pretended to take a sip of beer. “You’re a smart one, you are.”

  The man returned his smile, lifted the shot glass in a toast, and drank his whiskey down.

  “I would surmise from the mud spattered on your fine shoes and derby hat that you’d be the gentlemen driving the mud-covered Ford automobile down the street a bit.” Bullock took a slow sip of beer and studied the other man over the rim of the mug.

  The man nodded. “The top’s broken and won’t stay up, so we did get a little muddy.” He looked down, admired the shine on his shoes, and gave them another buff on the back of his pants legs. “Most of the mud on my shoes came from your damned street out there. They’re cleaned up pretty good, though.”

  “Are you all right, Annie?” Sheriff Bullock asked.

  “That’s nothing for you to be concerned about, Sheriff,” the man in the derby answered.

  Bullock heard a noise, and turned to see the man at the table sitting up and grinning drunkenly at him. He was red-faced, with heavy, oiled black hair parted down the middle and long pointed sideburns. His well-waxed mustache was bent downward on one side from being slept on.

  “The sheriff wants to buy you a drink, Leroy,” his friend announced.

  “Wunnerful,” the man muttered as he jammed his derby on his head and pushed himself partway to his feet. He waved his arms for balance and crashed over his chair to a heap
on the floor. He lay silent and unmoving until he started to giggle. Finally, he got his hands under himself, pushed up to his knees, managed to stand, and straightened his jacket. “Damn, it’s drunk out, Gordon,” he slurred, and began to giggle again as he worked to put the chair back on its legs.

  “Would you be having another drink, Gordon?” Bullock asked with a slight smile.

  “So, now you know my name, Sheriff,” Gordon said, glaring at Leroy.

  “Give these lads a shot of whiskey, Milo,” Bullock said, pushing at the coins on the bar. He watched Leroy in the mirror behind the bar as he stood looking around the room as if trying to decide what to do. “Leroy, why don’t you come over here to the bar and have a drink?”

  Leroy cocked his head as he looked at the sheriff and then smiled drunkenly. “You buyin’?”

  “Yes, I am,” Bullock answered, motioning him over. “Belly up to the bar.”

  Leroy walked several unsteady steps to the bar and leaned his elbows on it.

  “Pour, Milo,” Bullock instructed, pushing at the coins again.

  Milo Jensen poured two shot glasses full of whiskey and slid them across the bar.

  Leroy quickly downed his, but Gordon looked down at the glass in front of him and then back up at Sheriff Bullock. “I don’t want to get in the same condition as Leroy here.”

  “Suit yourself,” Bullock answered and pretended to take a sip of beer.

  The telephone on the wall at the end of the bar began to clang in a series of long and short rings. “That’s my ring,” Milo stated, and lifted the receiver to his ear. “Buffalo Bull Saloon.”

  Leroy pushed back from the bar, shuffled over to his table, and flopped in a chair. “Damn, it’s drunk out,” he mumbled, put his head on his arm on the table, and appeared to fall asleep.

  “Sheriff, the phone’s for you,” Milo Jensen announced, setting the receiver on the bar. “Sounds like it’s long distance.”

  “Looks like Leroy’s a bit worse for wear,” Bullock told Gordon as he walked past him. He lifted the receiver to his ear. “This is Bullock.”

  “Seth, this is John Mason, over in Fort Pierre,” the voice from the wire announced.

  “How are you, John, and how’d you know you’d find me here?”

  “The operator rang a few places for me. It is Saturday and the town isn’t all that big.”

  “What can I do for you?”

  “I called to ask you to be on the lookout for a couple of hard cases that broke out of jail up in Dickinson two days ago. They were locked up for a bank robbery over in Montana. Jumped the deputy and escaped. Beat him up pretty bad. They’re men not to be fooled with. Looks like they stole a car here sometime last night and lit out in your direction.”

  “Interesting,” Bullock answered, glancing at Gordon, who was watching him intently. “Tell me, John, how much are those two critters going for today?” He put his hand up loosely over the mouthpiece. “Man’s trying to sell me a couple of horses. Been dealing for over a week now.”

  Gordon nodded and turned his attention to the girl sitting at the table glaring at him.

  “What’s your best offer, John?” Bullock asked, into the telephone mouthpiece.

  “You got somebody there, Seth?” the phone voice asked.

  “Yep, both of them.”

  “Those two I was just talking about?” Concern showed in Mason’s voice.

  “Correct, both of them. Won’t deal on just one. Two or nothing.”

  “Watch out for the skinny one. He’s got a thirty-eight-caliber automatic pistol. Fancy silver thing with pearl handles. They took it away from him when they arrested them, but the safe wasn’t locked and they cleaned it out when they escaped. They’ve got at least six handguns!”

  “That’s an interesting point.”

  “Can you talk at all? Is there anybody in town I can call to help you?”

  Hell, I can’t tell him anything. “Not right now.”

  “I can be there in two hours. I’ll bring a couple of deputies. Don’t do anything foolish. Just stall ’em. Understand?”

  “That’d be fine and I’ll look forward to it.”

  “I’m on my way.” The phone line went dead.

  “I won’t go more than my original offer.” Bullock hung up the receiver. “Damn fool must think I’m an idiot when it comes to buying horses,” he muttered loud enough for Gordon to hear.

  Gordon seemed to be centering his attention on Annie as Bullock returned to his beer.

  “What line of work are you men in?” Bullock asked, pretending to take another drink of beer.

  “What difference does that make?” Gordon answered, looking over at the sheriff.

  “Well, with those fancy shoes and clothes, I didn’t figure you to be men who worked with your hands. You look more like salesmen. I mean, what the hell, you’ve even got a car.”

  Gordon laughed. “Gimme a beer,” he ordered.

  “Sure you don’t want another shot?” Bullock asked.

  “No, I don’t want another damned shot!” Gordon shouted. “I may be younger than you, Old Man, but I sure as hell ain’t stupid!”

  Careful, the boy’s getting testy.

  Jensen quickly poured a mug of beer and slid it in front of Gordon.

  “The sheriff’s buying this one,” Gordon said, lifting the beer and taking a drink. “Are you wearing a gun, Old Man?”

  Bullock shook his head and slowly spread his coat open. “Don’t need one in a quiet town like this. Are you wearing one, Gordon?”

  Gordon ignored him as he took another drink of his beer and leered at Annie. “Now that you mention it, Old Man, I do have a pistol,” he answered, lowering his beer and smiling smugly. He opened his coat, revealing the pearl handle of a silver automatic pistol sticking up from the waistband of his pants. “Eight shots as fast as I can pull the trigger,” Gordon stated proudly, patting the handle of the pistol. “And I’m good with it too!”

  “Never fired one of those automatic pistols,” Bullock said. “How about we go out behind the building and you can show me how fast it shoots?”

  Gordon looked at him blankly and broke into wild laughter. “You’re funny, Old Man! Really funny! Just how damned stupid do you think I am?”

  Bullock shrugged, smiled, and took a drink from his beer. This man is not to be fooled with. “You must sell something awfully valuable if you have to be that well armed.”

  The smile left Gordon’s face as he tipped his head and studied Bullock through narrowed eyes. “What do you think we sell, Old Man?”

  “Why is it you’re calling me Old Man now?” Bullock asked. “What happened to Sheriff?”

  “How do I know you’re the sheriff? I haven’t seen your badge. How do I know he’s not just calling you sheriff?”

  Bullock pulled back his coat, patted his vest pockets, drew out a badge, and slid it down the bar toward Gordon. “There, how’s that?”

  Gordon took a drink from his beer, lifted the silver-circled star from the bar, and looked at it closely. “It says United States Marshal. I thought you were the sheriff.”

  “I’m the sheriff, but I’m also a United States marshal for the state of South Dakota,” Bullock replied. “I was appointed by my friend, President Theodore Roosevelt. Federal marshal is higher than town sheriff, so I carry that badge.”

  “How can you be both?” Gordon asked.

  “I’m only the temporary sheriff until they have an election for a new lawman.”

  Gordon studied the badge and dropped it into a pocket. “It doesn’t make any difference. It’s my badge now.”

  Bullock took a deep breath. That wasn’t very smart to give him the badge, old hoss. “It’ll save you a lot of trouble if you’ll just slide the badge back down the bar.”

  Gordon shrugged. “You can come and try to take it away from me, Old Man.”

  “You don’t want me to do that,” Bullock stated.

  “Here’s how it is,” Gordon answered and laughed hysterically.
“You’re an old man and I’m a young man. I’m younger and faster. I’ve got an automatic pistol and you’re not wearing a gun.”

  Bullock’s eyes narrowed and he nodded in agreement.

  Gordon motioned with his hands. “Come and try to take my badge, Old Man!”

  Bullock shook his head. I’ve seen a lot of your kind in my fifty-nine years. I’m still around and most of them aren’t. He heard a chair screech behind him and glanced in the mirror to see Leroy stand and stretch.

  “A man can’t hardly get a decent nap with all the talking going on,” Leroy stated in a sober voice. “Let’s do what we came to do, Gordon, and get the hell out of here.”

  “I’ll be damned,” Gordon said, and laughed. “Looks like Leroy ain’t as drunk as we thought. He used to be a stage actor, you know. Guess he was just pretending to be drunk.”

  “All right, what are you here for?” Bullock asked.

  “We need traveling money,” Gordon answered. “And we figure you’re as good as anybody to get the banker to come in and open up for a quick Saturday withdrawal.”

  They must not know Finney’s in town, Bullock told himself as he glanced quickly in the mirror to check on Leroy’s location. I don’t like him behind me. He lifted his mug of beer, turned, and leaned his elbows back on the bar. Now I can at least see both of them.

  “Bartender, what’s the banker’s name?” Leroy asked.

  Jenkins looked at Bullock, who shook his head ever so slightly.

  “Ah, we got a man who comes over from Deadwood a couple of days a week to open the bank,” Jenkins answered. “He won’t be here again till Monday. Not much bank business in a town this size. Especially on Saturday.”

  Gordon’s hand flipped his coat open, grabbed the fancy pistol, and in one smooth move fired a shot into the bar mirror. “I don’t like being lied to!” he screamed.

  Jenkins ducked behind the bar, Annie covered her face with her hands and Bullock cringed at the fast action and noise. He’s getting worse. I’ve got to try to calm him.

  Gordon started to laugh and waved the pistol at them.

  Bullock glanced over his shoulder at the spider-webbed hole in the mirror. It was centered on the reflection of his face. He’s either lucky or a damned good shot! “Easy, easy,” he soothed, raising his hands. “Put the gun away, Gordon. Let’s talk this over without the gun.”