by Zane Grey
“Lester, he means we’re just good card-players—and lucky to boot.”
“Shore I ain’t insinuatin’ nothin’,” replied the trail-driver. “I was jest beefin’. All my wages gone and not even a drink.”
Latch tossed him a greenback. “Stay away from poker, son.”
The game went on. Luck fluctuated for Cornwall and the other two players, but, as so strangely usual, it held for Latch. His winning at cards was phenomenal. If his game were crooked, no single proof of it had ever been presented. As a matter of fact, Latch was that anomaly on the frontier, an honest gambler. But he was an exceedingly cold, calculating, and skillful one. Fortune merely heaped more money upon him, probably because he cared not at ail whether he won or lost.
“Shall we continue, gentlemen?” he asked, as the game momentarily halted.
“I want a chance to get even,” protested the Tullt manager.
“Let’s raise the limit,” suggested the stranger from the East.
Whereupon the game proceeded with an added zest. And it was waxing hot when one of the dance-hall girls came up behind Cornwall to place her hands on his shoulders.
The habitues of this dive called her Lily. She was young, pretty, brazen, and wild-eyed. Her sleeveless gown, cut extremely decollete gave her an alluring charm. It had been her habit to accost Cornwall every time he visited the place, attracted, no doubt, in Latch’s opinion, as so many other girls of like character had been, by his handsome face, his strange, flashing blue eyes, his coldness and unattainableness, and especially his courtesy so marked in that ribald atmosphere.
“Come, Handsome, you’ve won or lost enough tonight,” she said, coaxingly.
Cornwall laid down his cards to remove her hands from his shoulders.
“Pray don’t interrupt my game,” he said. “Our Texas friend on my right is out. Please devote your blandishments to him.”
“Wal, lady, I’d be shore pleased,” said the young trail-driver, with a frank smile on his brown face. “But, you see, they cleaned me oot, except for this heah twenty the Colonel gave back. I can buy you a drink. …
She thanked him and put her white, ringed hands around under Cornwall’s chin. “Darling boy!—cold iceberg, blue-eyed baby boy! Mama’s ’ittle sweet!… For God’s sake come out and show me you are a man!”
Cornwall flung her hands away as if they had burned. A wave of scarlet amazingly crossed his pale face, to recede and leave it paler. For just an instant Latch saw a flash of something far from hate or disgust in those wonderful blue eyes. He divined that the touch of her bare arms around his neck had revived some poignant memory.
“Lily, please run away and leave us to our game in peace,” said Latch, kindly. “I’ll make you a present.”
“Aw, go to hell,” replied the girl. Then she came around beside Cornwall, and sitting down on the arm of his chair she wound a white arm around his neck. He arose to rid himself of her and did it gently, though firmly, without a word or glance. Then he resumed his seat.
“Come away, Lily,” suggested the trail-driver. “You shore don’t want to hang around where you’re not wanted”
“Funny how I love the damned cold brute!” she exclaimed, with a hard laugh. “But even as a kid I liked ’em shy.”
Cornwall picked up his cards. Latch observed that his fingers quivered. He also observed the leaping light in the girl’s eyes. The situation might develop nastily if one of her admirers happened in. The stranger from the East regarded her with distinct favor.
“I’d like to substitute for our indifferent comrade,” he said. “No doubt he’s a woman-hater”
“Don’t get personal, sir,” cut in Cornwall, dangerously. “You are quite welcome to appease the young lady, so far as we are concerned!”
“No offense. I was just trying to step into the breach,” rejoined the Easterner, suavely.
“Listen, Handsome,” resumed the dance-hall girl. “I don’t care a damn about you. Really. But I made a bet with that French tart. She says, ‘Ees a frozen—what you call eet?—turnip?’—and I bet her fifty I could thaw you. Be a sport now and help me win”
“To what extent do you want me to be a sport?” queried Cornwall, evidently arrested.
“Come with me—dance—make love to me,” appealed the girl, eagerly. “There’s the damn Frenchie now.”
A striking, dark-haired, dark-eyed girl entered the gambling-den. She was attended by a heavy man, of bold mien. They walked arm in arm between the tables, stopping here and there to speak to gamester acquaintances. Then they espied Lily. This not only appeared to be a signal for them to approach, but also it prompted Lily to desperate ends. Turning her back to the table she sat down on the arm of his chair and, face to face with him, she attempted a passionate embrace.
“Lay off me—you lousy slut!” flashed Cornwall, and repelled her so violently that she went sprawling upon the dirty floor.
Like a cat she leaped up. Her scream of rage drew all eyes. And she stood beside Cornwall, her clawed hands uplifted, as if about to rend him. Cornwall might not have been aware of her presence. Cold-faced, im-perturbable, he bent over his cards. Suddenly, before even the sharp-eyed Latch could move or speak, she snatched the Texan’s gun from his belt and shot Cornwall in the head. Without cry or quiver his face drooped to the table. The startled observers, dumb for the instant, saw a dark thick stream obliterate the cards under Cornwall’s nerveless fingers.
Gray dawn brightened the casement windows of the hotel room where Latch had spent the last hours of that night. Oblivious of the cold, he sat there, smoking and thinking.
Always Latch had been prepared for death in any form for himself or his comrades. Yet Cornwall had seemed to bear a charmed life. He had seemed immune. He, at least, would escape the rope and the bullet. No doubt a woman had ruined him; certainly a woman had murdered him. Latch took the blow second to the hardest he had ever endured. Cornwall had been incredibly faithful. He had been Latch’s genius. He had understood Latch, served him, surely had loved him. And now he was dead—gone with Augustine, and Black Hand, Nigger Jack and Lone Wolf, Sprall, Creik, Waldron, Texas, all of the old and original outfit except Keetch and Leighton. His place could never be filled.
The sting of this tragedy awakened Latch’s steeped mind into something of its old introspective power. Stern probing of his gloom-pervaded brain discovered that he did not want to die at the end of a rope or as poor Lester had. With this fact established, he had to face the alternative. Wherefore, the loss of Cornwall turned him abruptly back upon the enterprise to rival Maxwell’s Ranch. But the old ambition, the old thrill in a landed estate, great troops of horses and herds of cattle, a pack of hounds to follow in the chase, and all that had been a dream of youth—these seemed dead as cold ashes. Nevertheless, there was Latch’s Field down across the prairie and the Journado—the beautiful valley and the lonely canyon, the ranch developed by Keetch, and the stock that had accrued since his trade with Satana. He counted the years—five—six—nearly seven years, and was incredulous.
At least, an intense longing to rest and hide, and a curiosity to see his property, brought him with bitter remorse to go back, as Cornwall had entreated. Too late for that strange, seemingly cold youth whose heart in fact must have been a volcano!
A belated caravan, the last one of the year, left Dodge City the 1st of November, and Latch with two pack-horses and a young vaquero rode out with it across the bleak prairie.
At the Cimarron Crossing—fateful deciding-point for so many wagon trains, the trail boss took the middle course along the famous river. Latch imagined for this reason he would be spared painful memories. But he was not. At Wagon Mount, where the Dry Trail again met the Old Trail, Latch left the caravan and headed south.
Jim Waters had been the scout and boss of that big west-bound caravan, a fact Latch had not been aware of until the start was made. Then it was too late. He sensed Waters’ curiosity and suspicion. There was nothing for him to do but be frank and frien
dly with freighters and plainsmen, and around the camp fire. As always, he made a favorable impression. Nevertheless, Jim Waters kept aloof. At Wagon Mount, when Latch got in his saddle to ride after the vaquero, Waters strode up with a sharp glint in his plainsman’s eyes.
“Wal, Latch, you’re off, eh?”
“Yes. Sorry I have to part company with such a fine caravan,” returned Latch, easily.
“Wild country south of hyar…. Must be friendly with Satana?”
“I bought Latch’s Field from Satana…. So far he and his Kiowas have tolerated me.”
“Ahuh,” rejoined Waters, bitingly. “Wal, I’ll report at Fort Union thet thar’s one white man the bloody old devil tolerates.”
Before Latch could retort the scout wheeled on his heel to stride away. Other freighters had heard that parting shot. It was what Latch might have expected; nevertheless, a grave and thought-provoking circumstance. Could he ever live down suspicion? Could he obliterate the shadow upon his past? Could he ever forget the stealthy steps upon his trail?
To Latch’s surprise and regret, he found a road of well-defined wheel tracks leading out of Wagon Mount, in a southeasterly direction. Caravans from Texas, instead of taking the old trail up to the Cimarron Crossing, evidently had climbed the plateau. He wondered if that road bisected Latch’s Field.
Latch’s desire for loneliness increased as he rode over the gray landscape. If the Kiowa Valley where he had located his ranch ever became populated, he could retire at will to the solitude of Spider Web Canyon. His fears seemed ungrounded, however, for the well-defined road gradually faded into various wheel tracks, old and dim, covering a wide belt. And he decided that separate wagons traveling at different times had made the tracks. Several times he was at a loss to keep to the old trail he knew. His Mexican rider had never been in that part of the country. Latch had to be his own guide, a fact which slowly began to dawn upon him with interest.
He had packed a number of canteens. There were springs and water-holes on this route, and the season was late fall when they ought to be full, but he did not take any risks. The first day away from Waters’ caravan passed so swiftly that Latch was overtaken by sunset before he realized the passing of the hours. Dry camp was made near a brushy plot from which a meager quantity of firewood could be procured. The Mexican was lazy, but a cheerful whistling companion. Latch lent a hand to tasks he had once liked, and now for several years neglected. He found himself presently conscious of a vague pleasure in breaking dry sticks, in kindling a fire, in the smell of smoke, in the necessity of using his hands.
Dusk soon mantled the shallow basin. Coyotes ranged about, yelping and barking, and the mourn of wolves emphasized the loneliness. Unconsciously old associations wedged into the insulated poverty of his thoughts. Away from men and noise, out in the open, under the velvet dome with its white stars he seemed to be worked upon by inscrutable forces. But he did not give much heed to these or any sensations. He made his bed and rolled in his blankets with a feeling that it did not matter whether a Comanche tomahawked him or not. And, tired out, he fell asleep.
The vaquero awakened him. Day had come, cold and raw, yet welcome despite things he did not analyze. How good the fire felt! and the savory odor of ham made his mouth water. After all, he could not help these sensations. He was still alive in flesh. Nature made her old demands. Before sunrise they were on their way.
At once Latch’s interest was roused. Deer and wild mustangs covered the bleached plain. After the sun had been upon him for an hour the raw cold tempered. He remembered that he was traveling south, away from the blizzard zone of Kansas. They had good horses, and the pack-animals, lightly burdened, kept at a trot over the rolling land. When Latch topped a rise of ground to see dark blue domes of mountains to the southward he sustained a singular thrill. He remembered that range. So clear and sharp they looked, scarcely ten miles distant! But he calculated they were seventy-five or a hundred. Somewhere along their base sloped the plateau which Spider Web Canyon cut through in its dark deep defiles. Straightway Latch became thoughtful. He was taken out of himself. He rode on eagerly, watching for other landmarks he knew. When they rode down into a thicketed swale Latch regretted the vanishing of the sunset-flushed patches of snow on the distant peaks.
He had camped in that swale with his band and three hundred Kiowas. Were the gray and black circles of ashes, the remains of camp fires he had known? But these had been lately burned. And six years had passed by since he had camped there.
Before the vaquero had wholly unpacked Latch had shot a deer and wild turkey. Again he was annoyed and puzzled by odd pleasurable sensations. Still these did not inhibit the camp tasks he set himself. He wondered vaguely. Once he thought with a pang how he missed Cornwall! Henceforth all the rest of his life he must be alone. It struck him as something impossible for a sane man to endure.
The third or fourth day from that camp, when the westering sun had gone down behind the purple range, the trail Latch rode with an ever-increasing impatience that left his vaquero far behind let out abruptly upon the rim of a high bluff.
A gray triangular-shaped valley, vast in extent, widening away from him, and wondrously beautiful with its silver and green parks and pastures, its round-foliaged, tree-dotted ridges, spread away from under him in a vast field. It was Latch’s Field. Violent pangs assailed his breast. He had come back. The impossible was realized.
Only the upper reaches of that lovely valley had been changed. Long gray-roofed ranch-houses lay hidden in the velvety green. Barns and sheds were more wholly concealed; bright little lakes rimmed by willows shone out of the green; lanes and patches of gold puzzled his searching eye until he recalled his favorite among plants—the sunflower. Fenced pastures of hundreds of acres stretched down to the open prairie.
Across the shining stream, however, still greater change riveted Latch’s eye. Houses, cabins, shacks, tents! He was nonplused. What had Keetch been about? Only a moment, however, did it take for the significance of what he saw to dawn upon him. A village, a settlement on his own field! Rage possessed him. And for the spell of a few moments he cursed Keetch and all who had come unasked into his lonely paradise. Soon it came to him that two miles, perhaps more, separated the ranch-house from this eye-sore of a town. Keetch had preserved his field. All habitations as far as Latch could see lay beyond the stream, at the base of the waning slope on that side.
Latch rode down the zigzag trail, a prey to emotions. His disappointment seemed all the more intense because of his astonishment that he could care at all.
His first impulse to kill Keetch slowly faded. What a marvelous place! Maxwell’s ranch-house was more commodious, more like a feudal baron’s fortification, but could not compare with this for beauty. Latch rode across the level, nearing the ranch-house and the huge walnut and cottonwood trees which stood in stately isolation. A wide porch, evidently at the front of the house, faced these great trees. All in front there appeared to be as green and smooth as if it were a well-tended park.
No person showed in sight anywhere on this side. Nor was there a horse or cow. Latch saw squirrels and long-eared rabbits and deer that paid no attention to him. Halting before the wide porch, he hallooed. No answer! As he dismounted he saw his vaquero, and the pack-animals silhouetted against the skyline on the bluff. Latch called again.
This time a little girl with red-gold curls came running out to fix dark, wide eyes upon Latch.
CHAPTER
10
AMEXICAN woman followed the child out on the porch. Latch was about to hail her when a white woman, pleasant of face and buxom of form, came to the door. She gave Latch a look, then, obviously startled, she disappeared within. Latch heard her call, and presently a deep voice and the thump of a crutch gave him thrilling expectation of his henchman, Keetch.
The man who appeared was indeed Keetch, gray and grizzled now, but no longer stem of face and hard of eye.
“My Gawd! if it ain’t Latch!” he boomed, with incredulous d
elight. And he stumbled in his haste to cross the porch.
Latch dropped his bridle and met Keetch at the steps, where they gripped hands and locked glances. Latch felt and read the loyalty he had always gambled upon in this outlaw.
“Howdy, Keetch,” was his greeting.
“Wal!—I be’n lookin’ for you every day these last two years. An’ I shore am glad to see you, boss,” replied Keetch, warmly. “Git down an’ come in, chief. We’ve shore got some surprises fer you.”
“Just a moment—Keetch,” rejoined Latch, panting a little. “One thing—at a time.”
“Air you alone, boss?” queried Keetch, in a lower tone.
“Yes, except for a Mexican…. There he comes with my packs.”
“Ahuh, I see—Wal, thet’s good. We’ve got enough men hangin’ around hyar now.”
“That so?” returned Latch, easily. “Come out, Keetch.” Then across his saddle while he loosened the cinches Latch bent penetrating gaze upon this trusted ally. “Wonderful house, Keetch. How’d you ever build it?”
Keetch beamed. “Wal, thet’s shore a story. Mebbe you didn’t know I was once a carpenter. Before I become a gentleman rider of leisure. Haw! Haw! All the same I was. An’ it come in handy hyar. Latch, I was nigh on three years on all the buildin’. An thet with plenty of help.”
“You don’t say! I’m amazed. Where did you set the lumber?”
“Floated it down from Spider Web durin’ spring freshets. The walnut we cut hyar in the valley. Ripsawed every board! Damn few nails used, ’cause we didn’t have them. An’ you gotta give Benson credit—as much as me.”
“Who’s Benson?”
“Gosh! Didn’t I tell you when you was hyar last? I guess not…wal, Benson an’ his wife rode in hyar—lemme see—seven years ago this last spring. They escaped a Comanche raid down on the Red River, got lost, an’ wandered in hyar. I reckon without them I’d never have made a go of it. Mrs. Benson is shore a dam fine little woman. It was she who took care of your wife when——”
