by Zane Grey
It was cold enough to make a wood fire pleasant in the bare log-cabin-like office where Major Greer sat at his table. He looked the bluff red-faced plains soldier of the period. But Fort Union was far removed from Fort Leavenworth, where the major had gotten his frontier experience.
“Captain,” he spoke up, addressing the middle-aged officer who bent a rugged wrinkled face over a pile of letters, “where’d I hear of Bowden’s wagon train before this?”
“Bowden? Let’s see,” replied Captain Massey. “Sounds familiar. There was an inquiry from Washington——”
“Hell! We get nothing but inquiries,” interrupted the major, testily. “Call Sergeant Riley.”
Massey went out, to return presently with a hard-eyed, square-jawed Irishman who would certainly have looked like a frontiersman but for his uniform.
“Sergeant, do you remember Bowden’s wagon train, or anything about it?” queried Major Greer.
“Yes, sor. Bowden’s wagon train was a lost wagon train.”
“Well, this letter informs me of that. Here’s the gist of it,” replied the officer, scanning the letter. “Over a year and a half ago John Bowden’s wagon train left Independence, bound for California. He was traced to Fort Dodge. He left there with fifty-three wagons in charge of a scout named Anderson. They had no escort. They took the Dry Trail and have never been heard of since.”
“Major, all we have a record of, if I rimimber correct, is that Bowden’s train is one of the missin’,” rejoined the sergeant.
“There have been many lost caravans since the war began,” mused Greer, ponderingly. “According to headquarters, this Bowden was a man of means and family. His daughter—no, niece, a Miss Cynthia Bowden, accompanied him. It means that she has been left a fortune. They were from Boston. Well, we are instructed to find out what became of Bowden’s wagon train.”
“Humph!” ejaculated Massey.
“Yes,” agreed the major, dryly. “If only some of these desk-chair, big-cigar officers would come out to this God-forsaken West!… But here it is. Strong pressure brought upon us. Bowden has powerful relatives or friends…. Suppose we call in the scouts. Kit Carson is still here, isn’t he?”
“Yes, sor. An’ Dick Curtis, Baker, an’ John Smith.”
“Sergeant, ask them please to come in,” concluded Greer.
In short order the soldier ushered three plainsmen into Major Greer’s office.
“Major, I couldn’t locate Baker an’ Curtis,” announced the sergeant.
“Howdy, Major,” replied Kit Carson to the officer’s greeting. The great guide and scout was clad in buckskin. He was past middle age then, but lithe and erect of form, clean-cut of face, with the eyes of an eagle. “You shore know Jack Smith…. An’ this is Beaver Adams, who knows a blame sight more about the plains than I do.”
Greer shook hands with the scouts, and bidding them find seats he offered cigars and briefly stated the inquiry about Bowden’s lost wagon train.
“Never heard of it,” said Carson, bluntly. “But I’ve not been to Dodge for two or three years.”
“Wal, I have, an’ not so long ago,” interposed Jack Smith. He was a lean giant of a plainsman who need not have told that he had been on the border for twenty years. “Last fall—October suthin’—I was just down from the Ute camp, an’ dropped in at Old Bent’s Fort. I heerd a man from Dodge tell aboot that Bowden train. He was talkin’ to some new freighters, an’ I took it was jest namin’ some caravans that has disappeared like jack-o’-lanterns. I didn’t mix in that talk. Jest heerd it, an’ I never forget anythin’.”
“It appears pretty well established that there was a Bowden’s wagon train that disappeared,” added Major Greer.
“Wal, that’s aboot all there ever will be established,” spoke up Carson.
“Onless by accident,” rejoined Beaver Adams. He was a trapper by calling, as his first name implied, and his quiet deep voice, his sharp eye, and his splendid stature gave his remark an impressiveness that struck Major Greer.
“How do you mean—by accident?”
“Wal, as I look back over my experience in the West I can recall many strange happenings an’ stories. Bowden’s outfit hit the Dry Trail the beginnin’ of a bad summer for all travelers across the plains. Kiowas, Comanches, Apaches, Pawnees, all on the war-path. Bowden had a small force of men unaccustomed to the frontier. I knowed Pike Anderson. He could be trusted. But what would fifty-odd men an’ most tenderfeet do against a big force of Injuns? They jest got massacred. The accident I hint of is jest one chance in a million, thet some day some Injun will let the secret slip. Injuns like to brag. An’ when they get a drink or two their tongues wag.”
“Shore is only one chance in a million,” agreed Carson, pessimistically. “But that’s an interestin’ letter. Thet aboot the big Tullt and Company Number One A wagon. They traced that wagon to Dodge.”
“Injuns seldom keep wagons,” put in Jack Smith.
“What good would it do to find that wagon?” queried Kit Carson.
“Gentlemen, the idea I gather from this inquiry is the importance of establishing the death of a Miss Cynthia Bowden,” went on Major Greer. “A fortune has been left her. Very probably that will be tied up until her death is proved. Law is worse than army red tape.”
“If the wagon train was lost, then the girl was lost,” declared Captain Massey.
“Shore, but she might not have been,” interposed Carson. “I see Major Greer’s point. If a fortune is awaitin’ some other heir, why, it’s just too bad. I’d say the thing to do is gamble on Beaver Adams’ hunch.”
“All right, Kit, talk fast,” replied Greer, gathering interest.
“That Dry Trail mentioned begins at the Crossin’ of the Cimarron an’ runs near three hundred miles west. Fact is it strikes the main trail again at Wagon Mount. Now we can find out if Bowden’s caravan ever got that far. I’ll gamble it never did. Fort Union is the stampin’-ground of all the redskins an’ outlaws from the Staked Plains to Raton Pass an’ from the Panhandle to the Pecos. Right this minute there’s a redskin out there or an outlaw who knows what became of Bowden’s wagon train.”
“Huh! an’ a hell of a lot more besides,” declared Jack Smith.
“Kit is figgerin’, as usual” interposed Adams. “An’ I shore can read his mind.”
“Go on, Kit. It’s a forlorn chance,” said the major. “But I’ve been given a strict order. What do you suggest?”
“Major, don’t let this inquiry go beyond all present here,” continued Carson. “But I’ll let Curtis an’ Baker in on it. We’ve all got friends among the Indians. Baker has a squaw wife. A Kiowa. We’ll begin a quiet search for clues. Dick is somethin’ of a gambler. He can get to gamblin’ with the shifty-eyed contingent out there. An’ when any one of us gets a chance we’ll ask a casual question of anyone we happen to meet. It will take months, an’ mebbe years, to get on the track of somethin’. But we might. An’ to do a good turn is shore worth try in’.”
“I agree. I’ll write the Department and lay stress on the mystery that shrouds Bowden’s lost wagon train. And that it will take time to find out, if that is ever possible.”
“Major, it ought not be hard to find out what wagon train followed Bowden’s over the Cimarron,” said Carson, thoughtfully. “Suppose you send word to Fort Dodge for that information. If we find out I’ll hunt up the trail boss who had charge.”
“He would have reported any sign of a fight, let alone massacre,” returned Greer.
“Suppose that particular scout never got here. He might have turned off. With caravans pullin’ out every day in season it’s like huntin’ for a needle in a haystack.”
“Do you know a friendly Indian that you could send among the tribes?” asked Greer.
“Yes. An’ unless this Bowden wagon train vanished like mist in the mornin’ sun we’ll get track of it.”
“Kit, I’m suspectin’ the Kiowas,” said Beaver Adams, broodingly.
“That wo
n’t tickle Baker,” laughed Carson.
“Tell me why Satana is not heard of as he used to be?” queried Major Greer.
“By thunder!” ejaculated Carson, slapping his knee. “Why? He shore was a bloody devil.”
“Satock is a bigger Kiowa chief than Satana,” declared Smith. “He’s been the regular war chief since ’fifty-five. Damn bad Injun! He’s raidin’ all around Santa Fe an’ up along the Vermigo River. Lucky the caravan that gets by there without a clash with Satock.”
“Bad, yes. But Satock is not Satana’s equal for sagacity an’ blood-thirstiness…. Strikes me queer that it’s Satock we hear of now instead of Satana. I wonder if Satana has had anythin’ to do with these lost wagon trains.”
Kit Carson was obviously becoming deeply interested in the inquiry propounded by the army officer.
“Another thing before it slips my mind,” said Greer. “Doctor McPherson dropped in an hour or so ago. Among his patients just now is one he considers worth meeting. Reminded him of Maxwell.”
“What! My friend Maxwell?”
“Yes. Doc mentioned your name. Well, this patient is a Southerner of parts. Educated man, handsome, fine type, evidently ruined by the war. His name is Latch. Stephen Latch. McPherson heard one of his men call him that. It appears that Latch has men here at the fort, or friends at least. Now, Kit, you know everybody on the frontier. How about Latch?”
“Never heard of him.”
“Any of you?” queried Greer, addressing the others.
“I’ve shore heard that name Latch,” declared Beaver Adams. “But I can’t place where or when.”
“What of this Latch?” asked Carson, curiously.
“Nothing particular. I was just interested because Mac told me about him. As I get it Latch came here in a wagon train some weeks—or was it months—ago. He had been badly wounded and was laid up for a long time before he was brought here.”
“What is he now?” queried Carson, sharply. “Freighter, trader, settler?”
“I’d say neither, from Doc’s talk. He has plenty of money. He paid for his keep at the hospital. Has Indian girl nurse in daytime and one of Doc’s staff at night.”
“If he’s a ruined Southerner, where does he get plenty of money?”
“Don’t ask me. I’m interested, though, and think I’ll call on him. Suppose you come along,” returned Major Greer.
“Shore. I’d go far to meet any man like Maxwell,” declared the scout.
Stephen Latch occupied one of the army tents in a corner of the stockade. Its isolation would have been significant to anyone who knew Latch. But except for several of his men, no one at the fort had ever seen him. Cornwall, now his inseparable companion, occupied this tent with Latch. It was furnished with more than the usual comforts of soldiers—stove, bureau, mirror, wash-stand, and other articles Latch had purchased at Tullt’s.
Latch and his band, about a year and more before, had found it expedient to throw in with a caravan east-bound for Independence. For the time being their intentions had been honest. When the train was attacked by Comanches near Point of Rocks, a noted ambush on the trail, Latch and his men fought with such courage and zeal that the scout in charge highly commended them to the commanding officer at Fort Larned. Mandrove was killed, Keetch lost a leg, and all the others except Cornwall, who bore a charmed life, were wounded, Latch very badly. For months he lay between life and death, often entirely oblivious of his surroundings. Then convalescence was slow. As soon as he was able to be moved he was taken to Fort Union, which was farther south and less rigorous of climate. Here after several weeks he began to mend surely.
On this sunny April day, with chilly gusts of wind swooping down from the snow-topped mountains, the little stove gave forth a cheerful crackling and warmth. Cornwall had had wood hauled in and he chopped it with the gusto of a man who liked to ply the ax. An Indian girl brought their meals from the army cook’s quarters. Some days before Latch had dispensed with the services of a soldier.
“Lester, I’d sit up today if it wasn’t so damn cold,” said Latch.
“Colonel, you’re doing fine,” replied Cornwall. “It’s a spring day. You can smell the odors. And not cold at all. You’ve lost so much blood. Be patient. You’ll be in the saddle in a month.”
“Patient? My God!” breathed Latch, drawing his breath hard. “Have I not clung to life?… How long is it, Lester?”
“Is what?” queried Cornwall, as he turned to Latch. The youth had passed from his face. Its beauty had suffered a blight. But nothing save death could ever change those merciless eyes of blue.
“Since we—we left Spider Web,” whispered the leader. This was his first outspoken query as to the past. But how that had burned in memory!
“Nearly a year and a half. Time flies, Colonel!”
“When did I send Keetch back?”
“Last October. It was just after you were taken to Bent where we expected you to die. But you didn’t. Something kept you alive. You had lucid hours and soon as Keetch recovered from losing a leg you sent him back.”
“Yes, I remember. I gave him money to build cabins and corrals at the head of Latch’s Field. Buy cattle. Start my ranch. Propitiate the Kiowas,” replied Latch, with eager fervor.
“I hope the one-legged geezer didn’t gamble an’ drink the money up.”
“No. Keetch is honest. I trust him as I trust you, Lester.”
“And—soon you’ll be riding back to our lovely canyon—to your beautiful wife?” rejoined Cornwall, jealously.
“Soon!… It has been ages. I shall die waiting…. Lester boy, you understand?”
The boy who was no longer young drooped his face over the stove as he put another billet of wood into the fire. His silence seemed something not to violate. But Latch, stirred by memories, and always curious about this youth, surrendered to the moment.
“Lester, didn’t you ever love a girl?”
Cornwall lifted a pale face with glittering, terrible eyes. Latch gazed into a chaos of hell.
“Any man but you—I’d kill—for reminding me!”
“Ah—so that is it?… Forgive me, comrade! Tell me your story some day. You heard Cynthia tell mine that time, long ago, when she saved me…. But, Lester, let me ask—don’t be hurt—have you no mother—father, whom you love still? I ask because I think we’ll give up this game. I have money. I’ll stake you to go home—begin life over. Or you can come back to my ranch and have a share in it.”
“Yes, Colonel, I have mother—father—damn their souls!”
“Hush, son!” cried Latch, shocked.
“I hate them.”
“Hate them! Why?”
“They hated me when I was born—because I came between them…. I was her son—but not his!”
“Christ, how cruel life is! …No sister to love, still, then—no brother?”
“Yes, I had a kid brother,” replied the young man, dreamily. “Cornie, I called him, not because our name is Cornwall, but because his hair was the color of ripe corn…. Cornie would be ten years old now…. To think I’ll never—see him again!”
After that tragic whisper Cornwall started up, as if recalling the present, and with a gesture of fierce passion he stalked out of the tent.
Latch gazed after him, a prey to conflicting emotions. “What a fine boy gone to hell!—I wonder if it’s too late. … Yes, for him. He is a cold-blooded tiger…. Ah, it’s strange and unbelievable, when I think of reality. Here we are, Cornwall and I—robbers, murderers—comrades to the vilest men and fiercest savages on the frontier!…So help me God I’m going to end that for myself!”
He indulged in a dream which had grown to be an absorbing passion. He would buy his freedom from his band, go back to Cynthia, and bury the bloody past in honest ranching and unswerving devotion to his wife. He caught his breath in the twinge of agony that always returned when he thought of Spider Web Canyon, of Cynthia, and the lonely cabin where he had left her in charge of faithful attendants.
Having lost all, Cynthia Bowden had created happiness out of love. But during those blessed, lonely months while he hid in Spider Web Canyon she had never rested, never ceased her passionate importunities to wean him from his union with these white desperadoes and with the red Satana. And she had won. But the very day of her victory Indian riders arrived with urgent messages from Keetch and Satana. They had summoned him for a great raid. He swore on his knees that it would be his last, and tearing himself away from the frantic girl he had ridden away to join his forces. Eighteen months! Was it possible that hours, days, weeks could pass so swiftly? But they had been full of hard, perilous, thrilling life until he had been stricken in the fight at Point of Rocks. After that, oblivion for months—and then the slow dull awakening to poignant life again!
Cornwall returned to jar Latch out of his reveries.
“Leighton wants to fetch in these new pards of his,” announced the youth, abruptly.
Latch cursed. “—— —— ——! I wish I’d croaked him sure that day on the trail. He’ll finish us yet.”
“I’ll walk out and kill him now,” replied Cornwall, imperturbably.
“Hold on, you damned gamecock!… I can’t have you shoot Leighton down like that. It will start a lot of trouble. And if you risked an even break with him—you might——”
“Faugh! I can beat the scar-faced liar to a gun any day…. Colonel, I see through this change in Leighton, since you shot him to save Cynthia. It’s a grand bluff. He hates you with hate so great that it has transformed him.”
“But, Lester, if that is so he could have shot me in the back long ago,” protested Latch. “Leighton has changed, yes, but only for the better.”
“To kill you wouldn’t satisfy Leighton,” returned Cornwall, speaking with the cold passionless wisdom of a sage. “He wants a horrible revenge. To put you on the rack!… He’ll make ’way with Cynthia or do something worse, if that were possible. I feel all this, Colonel. I know the man is playing a waiting game. His patient persistent way of trying to make a friend of me. It’s all so clear. This is aside from the bad impression he has made here at the fort. Major Greer and his officers have no use for the outfit Leighton tracks with. And these fox-nosed scouts! Don’t let any of them find out Leighton is one of your men.”
