by Zane Grey
“Wal, if anyone asks me what a liar you are, old timer, I’ll shore answer that,” retorted Corny.
Bridgeman turned to the girls edging into the circle.
“Miss Latch, it has turned out thet the hero of your little experience down the road is an old friend of mine,” he said, evidently desiring to impress and please. “I’m sorry, though, I cain’t introduce him by name. All I ever heahed him called was Corny…. Cowboy, meet Miss Estelle Latch an’ her friends.”
“Good even, Mr. Corny Trail-driver,” spoke up the girl between the other two girls.
Corny remembered the voice. But could this be the Latch girl of the stage-coach? Divested of the linen coat and veil and bonnet, standing on the ground to disclose a slender rounded form and a beautiful face, this girl was vastly transformed, if she were the one who had dominated his thoughts all afternoon. Then he saw her eyes.
“Evenin’, Miss Latch—an’ you-all,” he said, composedly, and bowed to the three. “I’m right glad you’re safe with my friend heah, Mr. Bridgeman. Funny how neither of us knew the other’s name.”
“Indeed, it is very funny how some men forget their names,” returned Miss Latch. “But my dad always said that names don’t count for much west of the big river. It’s what you do and are that counts.”
“Wal, sometimes what you do an’ are make it good you have forgotten your name.”
“Will you walk with us a little?” she asked, sweetly. “We are cramped from sitting all day. And soon it will be so dark we’ll be afraid to venture away from the camp fire.”
“Shore be glad to.”
They strolled under the trees and along the brook. Corny had never before been so free from confusion in the presence of young women. Nothing was said about the incident of the day. No questions were asked Corny. The Latch girl talked about the caravan and the band of Kiowa Indians, friendly with her father, that was to meet them at Adobe Walls and escort them to Latch’s Field.
“Oh, girls, Adobe Wails is the most interesting place,” she exclaimed, thrillingly. “There was a terrible fight once. A handful of white men held off hundreds of Indians… Mr. Corny, did you ever hear of that battle?”
“Shore have. It was a humdinger.”
“The ride from Adobe Walls to Long’s Road, where we branch off, is about like this. But from there on it grows wilder and rougher. My valley is the most wonderful place in the world.”
“It’s all so wonderful,” murmured Marcella Lee.
“What a pretty spot!” exclaimed Elizabeth.
They had come to a glade perhaps a quarter of a mile below camp where the brook, bank-full and bordered by high grass and flowers, appeared to rest and eddy, reluctant to move on. The water glided smoothly on, flushed rose by the sunset glow. Horses and oxen were grazing down the glade.
“It is pretty,” agreed Miss Latch, demurely. “Marce, you rest here with Elizabeth a little. Mr. Corny and I will walk to the big log yonder.”
“Well, Estie Latch!” ejaculated Marcella, aghast.
Elizabeth giggled. “So that’s why you took us walking!”
CHAPTER
12
CORNY walked beside her as one in a dream. Still he divined that this was to be the most extraordinary event of his life. She was not such a little girl, after all. The small head, crowned with wavy red-gold hair, came quite up to his shoulder. She stepped daintily, lifting her skirts clear of the weeds.
A huge cottonwood tree had blown down to make a bridge across the brook. Though half uprooted, it still kept fresh green foliage.
She put her hands on the log. “If there was a stirrup to put my foot in I could make it,” she said, and turned. “Lift me up.”
Corny put a hand to each side of her slim waist and tossed her aloft. But she appeared more substantial than he would have guessed.
She smoothed down her skirts and then looked straight down upon him, as he leaned against the log. If Corny had known anything about girls, he would have seen this one was quite pale and very earnest.
“Can you imagine this is a most unusual proceeding for Estelle Latch?” she asked.
“Wal, no, I cain’t. But it’s shore unusual for me!”
“A trail driver is not used to girls—like me?”
“This heah trail driver is not used to any girls,” he flashed, in reply to the significance of her query.
“Marcella and Elizabeth think me a flirt,” she went on. “I have fun with their brothers, and we had parties occasionally at school. But I’m really not a flirt.”
Corny could only be sure of what she looked like and there was no word in a trail driver’s vocabulary to do her justice.
“I reckon you needn’t have told me that,” he said, and looked away from the penetrating eyes.
After a pause she went on: “So you are not really a no-good trail driver who has lost his job?”
“Wal,” he laughed, “I’ve shore lost my job, all right.”
“I saw Mr. Bridgeman when he greeted you. I heard him. He must have a very high opinion of you.”
“Aw, he overrates a little service I was lucky enough to do for him,” replied Corny, impatiently.
“A service like the one you did for me, probably.”
“No. It wasn’t like that atall.”
“Never mind, Mr. Cowboy. Modesty is becoming to some young men. Mr. Bridgeman established your status to all who heard…. But he hinted that no one should dare ask you questions.”
“Wal, it’s not exactly safe,” replied Corny, with a smile that disarmed his words.
“I was afraid of you at first—But I’m not now. You’re like a boy my dad used to tell me about. A wild strange boy who was killed saving Dad’s life.”
“Lady, I reckon I’m wild an’ strange, all right, but hardly worth your interest for that.”
“How did you come to lose your job?”
“Wal, there was a driver who had a grudge against me. An’—I couldn’t keep out of his way forever.”
“You fought?”
He let silence be his answer.
“Mr. Corny, you hint you’re a very bad fellow.”
“I reckon I am, dog-gone-it!”
“What do you mean by bad?”
“Just no good, Lady.”
“Do you gamble and drink?”
“Wal, I used to—some,” he confessed, “till I got sick of it. Always got me into trouble.”
“I imagine from one thing you said—that you never ran after the dance-hall girls at Dodge and Abilene… Oh, I know all about them.”
“No. I never run after them—or any girls,” he replied, a little stiffly.
“Then—are you a rustler and a horse-thief?”
“My Gawd, no!… Lady, I’m not that kind of bad,” he replied, bending stern eyes upon her.
“I knew you weren’t.”
“Aw, what can a slip of a girl tell aboot men?”
“It’s something she feels,” she rejoined, eloquently, and leaned closer. “Listen. You know who I am. My dad is Stephen Latch, whom you’ve heard of. Everybody knows him. He is a Southerner and has been on the border for nearly twenty years. I am sixteen years old. I was born in Spider Web Canyon, the loneliest and most beautiful place on earth, I think. AH I know about my mother is that she came from the East and belonged to a rich and cultured family. There’s a secret about her—she died at my birth—which Dad promises to tell me when I’m eighteen—Up until I was ten years old I never was away from Latch’s Field. Mrs. Benson brought me up—taught me. She has been a mother to me and I love her. When I was eleven Dad sent me to school in New Orleans. Oh, how I hated being away at first! But I came home to spend the summers. And I’m going home now for good. Dad doesn’t know that yet…. Now, Mr. Cowboy, will you tell me as much about yourself?”
“Aw!… It’s awful nice an’ kind of you, Miss, givin’ confidence to a stranger,” he burst out. “I shore appreciate you. But I cain’t understand why you did—or why you want to know abo
ot me.”
“Because I’m going to persuade you to come to Latch’s Field and ride for my dad,” she declared.
“You’re what?” he demanded, incredulously.
“I think you can help Dad—and make my home a happier place,” she replied.
“Lady, you’re payin’ me too high a compliment. But what aboot your dad?”
“Last summer was different,” she went on, swiftly. “Up to then I was the happiest girl in the world. But troubles for Dad multiplied. Oh, I can’t take time now to think of them. But they distressed me. Dad thought he kept them from me. I found out that Dad had enemies. There’s a man at Latch’s Field—his name is Leighton. He runs a gambling-den. Of late years he has grown rich. Land, cattle, horses, merchandise—he has prospered. I know he is my Dad’s greatest enemy.”
“Shore. On this border any big man will have enemies. Go on.”
“Then, just before time for me to go away to school something dreadful happened. Strangers are always coming to Latch’s Field. This one wanted money—threatened Dad with something—I know not what. And Dad shot him!… I was there on the porch. Saw the guns drawn…. Saw that man fall off the porch—to beat and flap in his own blood—like a chicken with its head cut off…. Oh, horrible! It made me sick. I’d seen fights before, ever since I was old enough to remember…. Dad was shot, too, but not seriously…. Well, I had to go to school again. This last has been the longest and hardest winter away from home. Only two letters from Dad in all those months! I’m worried.”
“Wal, I reckon you’re borrowin’ a lot of trouble, Miss Latch,” replied Corny, kindly.
“Since last summer I’ve felt a shadow hanging over me. I can’t explain. It’s something I feel. I hope, once I get home, that it will be dispelled…. Now, Mr. Cowboy, I’ve told you my story and asked you to come to Latch’s Field. Will you?”
“Just why do you want me, Miss?” he queried, curiously.
“I—I don’t know, unless it was what Mr. Bridgeman said.”
“Like as not your dad wouldn’t hire me. I have no recommendation.”
“You have mine,” she retorted. “I will promise you a job.”
“Excuse me, Miss, if I laugh,” drawled Corny, amused. “The idee of a kid like you rulin’ your dad. I’ll bet Latch is another Chisholm or Maxwell, an’ maybe more.”
“He would do anything for me,” she declared, proudly. “He’s the best dad in all the world.”
“Wal, that’s not to be wondered at. But to let you run his ranch an’ hire strange riders—umf—mmm, Miss Latch, I cain’t see it.”
“Never mind that. I trust you without knowing even your name.”
“Shore. An’ you’re a dog-gone little fool. Suppose I did turn out no good?”
“Every word you say strengthens whatever it was that prompted me to ask you. But I cannot go any farther than—ask.”
“You make me ashamed, Miss Latch. Fact is, I was only thinkin’ aboot sparin’ you. I’m an unlucky cuss. Things always hunt me up. Still, the truth is that doesn’t prove I cain’t help your dad an’ ease your mind…. So, I—reckon I’ll come.”
“Thank you,” she replied, radiantly, extending her hand. “Shake on that.”
He squeezed her little hand, finding it strong and not too soft, surely one that had known work and the pull of a bridle. Without boldness or intent he retained it in his own.
“I’ll come, provided you don’t tell your dad anythin’ aboot me atall.”
“Oh, it’s only fair he should know of the hold-up, at least. Bill will tell. The girls couldn’t keep it.”
“I’ll take care of Bill an’ you keep your friends from ravin’ aboot me. Then maybe Latch might take me—on my merits as a trail driver.”
“Very well…. Mr. Cowboy, you are still holding my hand,” she said, as if wondering at the fact.
“Wal, so I am,” drawled Corny, not in the least abashed. “You forgot aboot that turrible risk.”
“You said you would run that,” she retorted, with almost a touch of roguishness, and pulled her hand free. “I might let you hold it, but for those sharp-eyed girls. What would they think?”
“Gawd only knows!” ejaculated Corny. “What would anyone think? … Miss Latch, I’m askin’ your pardon. You see this is the first time I ever met a girl who wanted me to ride for her.”
“I’m glad no other girl ever did,” she replied, laughingly. Then she grew thoughtful again. “It’s getting dusk. We must go. But first—who are you? Please tell me something about yourself?”
“Shore. There’s not much interestin’ aboot me. My name’s Cornwall. I’m twenty-two. Bom in Santone. My father run a string of stage-coaches before the war…. I—I had a brother… Lester. He was much older… but we were playmates. Went to school together. Then somethin’ turrible happened. We were close friends with another family. The boy in that family was Lester’s best friend…. Lester was in love with the prettiest girl in Santone. She was part Spanish…. Wal, she ruined Lester—betrayed him with his best friend…. Lester did somethin’ awful. An’ he ran away. Mother died, an’ Father went to war. I never heahed from him again. I worked on ranches till I was fifteen. Then I took to trail drivin’. I was six years riding the Chisholm Trail. Have driven herds of cattle clear to Montana an’ Wyoming. Always I was huntin’ for Lester. But I never got any trace of him. Reckon he’s gone—long ago…. Wal, trail drivin’ suited me. All day in the saddle an’ most of the night, sometimes! The long slow drive, grazin’ along. Ten miles a day was good travel. Hot sun—aw, I know these scorchers. An’ the del norte of the Mexicans. North wind out of a clear sky—freeze your marrow! But the turrible storms an’ floods, the stampedes, the roarin’ herds of buffalo, the maraudin’ Injuns an’ the thievin’ rustlers, the tough hard riders in every camp an’ on every trail—they all seemed to ease me—to call to that fierce wild somethin’ in me…. An’ so, Miss Latch, I grew quick with guns an’ patient with the drags—an’ by drags I mean the slow, lame, worn-out cattle that dragged behind the herd…. I reckon not all trail drivers will speak so fair of me as Bridgeman…. Wal, it had to be good-by to the Old Trail. An’ heah I am, Miss Latch, shore lucky at last, an’ swearin’ you will never regret your faith in me.”
“I shall not…. Oh, what a sad and wonderful story! You must tell it all to me some night when the del norte blows and we are sitting beside Daddy’s great fireplace. … It is almost dark. Help me down. Where are those girls? If they ran off, I shall murder them…. Mr. Corny Cornwall, I declare if you are not holding my hand again.”
“Dog-gone! I’m shore absentminded,” drawled Corny, ruefully. “Wal, heah come your friends, I’ll bet huntin’ you up. Lady, I reckon I want to run.”
“Please don’t. At least leave me my hand… Stay, Corny! They will be merciless…. Hello, girls! Here we are. We’ve been waiting—the longest while.”
Corny camped with the family from Georgia and made himself useful during the four days’ ride to Long’s Road.
He saw but little of Miss Latch and her friends, an omission partly owing to his reluctance to approach Miss Latch again. He thought of her all day long, watched her from a distance, longed to go to her. But the one time he did venture to visit her camp fire there were feminine members of the caravan present, besides her girl friends, so that he had only a greeting from her. This seemed a little cool, he thought, and her dark, doubtful eyes on him further rendered him diffident.
On the fifth day, however, when the wagon train went on, leaving the Latch stage-coach and occupants to the escort of Kiowas, Corny learned a little more about the complex nature of girls.
“Good mawnin’,” drawled Miss Latch, imitating him as he led his horse by the coach. “We thought you had gone with the caravan—and the big-eyed girl from Georgia.”
Corny was as one thunderstruck. He stared at Miss Latch. Her face appeared a lovely mask. It seemed to deny all that he had built upon. Astounded, bewildered, he could only resort to the nonchal
ance of a trail driver.
“Mawnin’, Miss Latch…. Shore I’ll catch up with them before they get over the hill.”
A little later, while fumbling over his saddle-cinch, utterly at a loss for what to do and cursing his stupidity, he was confronted by an entirely different Miss Latch.
“You don’t mean it?… You’re not going with that caravan?” she demanded, in a low and furious voice. In all his life Corny had never gazed into such blazing, unfathomable, wondrous eyes.
“Wha-what?” he stammered.
“You couldn’t be so—so unkind. Such a liar!… Oh, I’ve watched you night after night—talking to that Prescott girl. She’s very pretty and nice. I met her. I don’t blame you. I can make allowance for you. My camp fire was always surrounded. But to desert me now—after promising to come help me—and Dad—oh! that would be despicable!… For a country girl with red hands and big feet!… Oh, I wondered about you!”
“Yeah. So you wondered aboot me, Estelle?” drawled Corny, thrown suddenly into a blissful paradise.
“Yes, I did,” she cried, nodding her bright head until the red-gold curls danced. She was only a child. Her eyes burned dark reproach. “All that blarney of yours about so little knowledge of girls! Oh, I’ll bet you have been a devil with women.”
Corny looked across his saddle at the lovely betraying face and he thought that it was well his horse stood between the girl and him. Something like a bursting comet scintillated in his mind.
“Estelle, a fellow can fall so turrible in love with one girl that he runs ravin’ to another,” he said, deliberately. And then the instant that unwitting and astounding speech was out he stood appalled, actually trembling in his boots.
“Oh!” she breathed. “I—you—” she gasped. The purple flame vanished from her eyes that dilated, grew wide and round in wonder, and suddenly fell as a tide of crimson flooded up from her neck to cheek and brow. Then she fled.
Corny rode out in front with the Kiowa guides, one of whom, a magnificent Indian, surprised him by saying:
