The Lost Wagon Train

by Zane Grey

  “How, cowboy. Me see you Dodge. Me Hawk Eye.”

  “Wal, howdy yourself, Hawk Eye, old scout,” replied Corny, who was in a state of mind bordering on delirium. At this moment he felt hilarious; the next he was sure to plunge to the depths of misery. Then he would be cold and again hot. He had a madness to run his horse out on the prairie, only there was something binding him to that stage-coach.

  Hawk Eye was not loquacious. Corny soon exhausted the Indian’s stock of English, or at least all he chose to divulge. Corny knew Indians pretty well, and he was not one of those Westerners who believed the only good Indian was a dead one. Hawk Eye had been well named, so far as his eyes were concerned. His bronzed lineaments appeared to mask wonderful experience and cunning. Corny decided to cultivate Hawk Eye.

  The road wound through one narrow valley after another, following a stream Simpson had called Major Long’s Creek. A detachment of soldiers under Long had worked out this route in 1859. It did not appear to have been traveled much and in some places the stage-coach made but slow progress. Corny was not sure of himself when he thought this country the most beautiful he had seen. The rich golden light on the waving grass, the brightness and color, the reflection of white clouds and blue sky in the streams, the glamour that lay on the lonely purple ridges—these might have been an exaggeration of Corny’s state of mind. He was sure, however, of the topography of the valleys, the groves and glades, the deer in the swales and buffalo on the ridges, and the tips of blue mountains that stood up in the notches.

  These Kiowas were travelers. They kept their ponies on a trot. When the coach got stuck in a mud-hole or a sandy wash, they got off and dragged it out. Corny likened them to trail drivers. They made upwards of forty miles, Corny calculated, and halted for camp early, in a sheltered oval between hills. Some of the Indians rode off to hunt meat.

  Corny had nothing to do but unsaddle and hobble his horse, then present himself to Simpson for camp duty.

  “Any good as a camp cook?” queried the driver.

  “Turrible,” replied Corny.

  “Never seen a cowboy who wasn’t. Rustle wood, build two fires, one hot, an’ pack water.”

  The young ladies appeared to be having the time of their lives. Miss Latch giggled and played about quite as obstreperously as her girl friends. Corny observed, however, that she studiously avoided looking in his direction, which fact first relieved and then annoyed him.

  Presently it was Corny’s task to spread a canvas on the ground and get ready for supper.

  “Say, girls,” he drawled, “’pears to me, if you-all are goin’ to marry Westerners, you oughta learn somethin’ aboot camp chuck.”

  Elizabeth and Marcella came running, only too glad to help, but Miss Latch apparently had urgent business in the stage-coach. She had to be called twice. Corny ate his supper standing at the camp fire, while Bill waited upon the young ladies. They had a merry meal.

  “Estie, if you find me a young man as handsome as our cowboy, who can cook as well as Bill, I’ll marry him,” vouchsafed Marcella in anything but a low voice.

  That remark destroyed Bill’s equilibrium and put a sudden end to Corny’s listening. “Dog-gone!” he muttered. “They shore got me buffaloed.”

  Still, a little later, he had the courage to suggest that they allow him to spread their blankets under a tree, where they would be more comfortable than in the coach.

  “Thank you,” replied Miss Latch, coldly. “We’ll feel safer inside.”

  Corny turned to his tasks, effectually rebuffed. Nevertheless, there edged into his dismay and bewilderment a sense of gladness, of charm, in thought of the future. This journey would go on, days on end. She would be there. Already he was serving her. That brazen remark of his to her had been a blunder. Moreover, it was not even true. Suppose she took that for truth! Corny squirmed in his fright. And the next instant stole an unobtrusive glance at this young feminine person who had changed the very current of his life.

  Darkness came on, with the Indians smoking round the camp fire. Coyotes began their thrilling chorus. The girls were entranced with it all. Bill coaxed them to go to bed, pleading a start at dawn next day. Finally he grew exasperated.

  “Say, cowboy, pack these gurls to their boodwa,” he called to Corny, who was making way with the scout Hawk Eye.

  “Shore, Bill,” replied Corny, placidly, as if the order were a routine of camp tasks.

  Like naughty children the girls fled to their refuge, but not before Corny had ascertained that it was Miss Latch who led. “Bold thing!” he heard her say to her friends. “I believe he’d have packed us in as if we were sacks.”

  “I sort of like that boy,” Marcella replied.

  Corny sought his hard bed, which consisted of a saddle blanket and a coat. He began to evolve in his mind a cowboy trick to play upon the girls, and was deep in machinations when he fell asleep.

  Dawn did not stay for dreams. Another day came and passed, and then four more days in succession, all alike in travel and incident, yet strangely, almost imperceptibly, different. They mounted in romance. Still he kept aloof from the girls, scarcely ever addressing them unless necessary or instructed to do so by Simpson. Marcella and Elizabeth manifested signs that even Corny could not fail to see. He pretended to be wooden, however, and certainly felt easier that Miss Latch deigned him only little notice.

  The long succession of ridges seemed but waves of the prairie climbing to the foothills. The morning arrived when Hawk Eye led around their base to a vast tableland, green and blue and yellow, far as eye could see. Black patches out there meant herds of buffalo to Corny. That day they heard the boom of guns and saw Indian riders in the distance. They passed a squatter’s hut, and ten miles farther on stopped at Hartwell’s ranch, where a pioneer lived with his squaw wife.

  Next morning as Corny rode out with the Kiowas he saw a strip of purple land rising above the prairie straight north. This was the northern prong of the bluff that ran down from the foothills, and formed one of the boundaries of the triangular valley Latch claimed as his range. The line of ridges Hawk Eye had been traveling along soon turned abruptly west, and this, Corny decided, formed the southern boundary of Latch’s valley. It certainly was a magnificent range. Herds of buffalo showed in clusters out on the rich prairie grass.

  Late that afternoon Corny made out cattle, and then he realized he was getting somewhere. Camp that night was made near the first ranch in the valley. Corny was so keen to talk to a cowboy that night that he forgot some of his camp chores. Casual interrogation of this range rider acquainted him with much he never could have learned from Miss Latch.

  Before sunrise next morning the stage-coach was hitched up and loaded, with Bill at the reins and the girls gayly excited. Latch’s Field only thirty miles! Corny leaned with an arm over his saddle as Bill cracked his long whip. The coach groaned and the wheels rolled. Then Corny, waving to Marcella and Elizabeth, suddenly gave a start to discover Estelle giving him her eyes for the first time since the upheaval at Long’s Road. What a strange, dark, wondering glance! It held a long moment. Then she waved a gloved hand and averted her face. Corny was flung aloft to the skies in ecstasy. Did not that look, that farewell wave of hand, signify forgiveness? Could they have meant more? It took many a long mile of riding for him to wear out that mad hope.

  Late that afternoon Corny rode alone on the last few miles into Latch’s Field. The Indians had gone on ahead. Corny was content to walk his tired horse, to have time to form his impressions. He passed a dozen prosperous-Iooking ranches and thousands of cattle and horses before he came in sight of the head of the valley. A fine willow-bordered stream flowed down the valley, cutting one-third of its width off on the left, where between it and the gray bluff all these ranches were located. Nothing but open range on his right! The brand on the stock on that side appeared to be an L F. This manifestly was Latch’s brand and cattle dotted the whole expanse across the miles of valley to the north bluffs.

  Like all
the valleys in this region, Latch’s headed in a notch under the hills. Only this one was by far the most imposing and beautiful of all he had seen. Green squares attracted his speculative eyes, groves of cottonwoods and ridges with a line of walnut trees marched across to the opposite wall, meadows like parks of golden grass shone against the sunset.

  “Dog-gone!” soliloquized Corny, in the rapture of a true rider of the open. “Shore Latch knew what he was doin’ when he bought this range from the Kiowas. Prettiest place I ever seen. An’ shore a gold-mine if the Old Trail keeps pourin’ cattle north.”

  Soon Corny made out Latch’s ranch occupying much of the upper end of the triangle, and separated from the town by a mile or more of orchards and high fences of cottonwood trees. Corny had never seen Maxwell’s Ranch, but he would have wagered this one of Latch’s would run it a close second. For the first time in his life Corny saw a place where he would like to stay indefinitely. But he admitted he could not be sure this feeling was not caused by thought of the violet-eyed girl who would some day own that ranch. Still, it would have been a pretty nice place even without the girl! Orchards on two sides, big trees and grassy parks to the north, lakes and gardens, and everywhere gray roofs showing out of the green—his experienced eye acclaimed all this a glorious ranch.

  Near the town of Latch’s Field were a number of substantial log ranch-houses perhaps a half-mile or less apart. All these had been built at one time, as had the barns and corrals. The planting of cottonwoods for shade, and the orchards, indicated the foresight of Latch. The farms adjoining were fertile and well tilled, and farther out great herds of cattle roamed.

  When Corny entered the town he saw that Latch’s Field was no different from any other Western town in an isolated district. One long wide dusty street was spotted with vehicles and lined by a motley assemblage of buildings new and old, large and small, most of which had high board fronts. Corny rode on leisurely, to pass Indian shacks and Mexican huts, tents white and tents dirty, cabins of various kinds, until he reached the zone of larger buildings. Here he passed a row of saloons. “All same Dodge!” he laughed. “Dog-gone! This heah burg’s no place for the future Mrs. Cornwall!”

  In the center of the more pretentious section he espied a big signboard upon which shone in large letters the single word “Leighton’s.” Corny rode by with more than interest, with a return of his old, cold thrill. “Shore as hell I’ll bore some hombre in there!” he muttered. Leighton’s place was huge. A porch ran along the whole front. “Ahuh. Mr. Leighton runs a whole show.” And by that Corny meant store, hotel, trading-post, and a saloon with its vile accessories.

  The town appeared to be alive. A few loungers, a few riders, teamsters driving along, groups of dusty-booted men, a pedestrian in his shirt sleeves here and there—all these attested to the leisurely activity of Latch’s Field at sunset.

  Some minutes later Corny rode down a lane into Latch’s ranch. He preferred to go in the back way, as more becoming a trail driver. Inquiry of a Mexican directed him to a huge courtyard surrounded by corrals and barns. It bore the action and odor of use, though vacant of riders at the moment. Fine horses were drinking from a pond in the center; from somewhere came a sound of running water; burros were braying, horses whinnying, a stallion was whistling. A wide opening in the circle led to a barn, the magnificence of which was a climax for all this approach. Corny decided that he was going to stay. And then he laughed inwardly at the thought of how impossible it would be to leave.

  A long slant up to the wide-open entrance of the barn led Corny’s slow gaze to rest upon riders with horses, and several men. He rode toward them, rolling a cigarette on the way. If the tall man in black sombrero and high-top boots was Mr. Latch, as Corny guessed, this moment was most auspicious. But Corny was never sanguine about meeting men. He always had his mind made up before he confronted anyone. A big bearded man leaning on a crutch, and a bow-legged cowboy, directed the attention of the tall man to Corny’s approach.

  In another moment Corny did not need to be told which one was Stephen Latch.

  Reinin in, he shifted a leg over the pommel, always a sign of friendly intent, removed his cigarette, and addressed the trio.

  “Howdy.” And he looked from the cripple to the cowboy, and then to the man in black. He saw a handsome face, a mask of fine lines, a record of havoc, and eyes of piercing fire.

  “Howdy, yourself,” retorted the rancher, curtly.

  Corny felt at ease. His presence with the Kiowa escort, his rescue of Miss Latch and her companions, had not been divulged.

  “I’m lookin’ for a job,” went on Corny, placidly.

  “Talk to Keetch, here. He’s my foreman.”

  “Excuse me, sir. Are you Latch?”

  “Of course I’m Latch,” rejoined the rancher, impatiently.

  “Wal, if you don’t mind, I’ll talk to you,” drawled Corny, with his slow smile.

  Latch laughed at the rider’s impudence.

  “Fire away, son. But you can’t fool me. You saw the stage-coach come in.”

  “Ump-umm,” declared Corny. In his second glance at Latch he satisfied himself that he had judged the rancher correctly. No ordinary man could achieve the ownership of Latch’s Field. And that invitation to declare himself won Corny’s liking on the instant. “I shore didn’t see no stage-coach come in. But I heahed some hombre in Leighton’s say, ‘Latch’s trouble is heah,’ so I reckoned I’d come over to offer you a handy boy.”

  “Leighton’s!” Latch might have been stung. Then with a laugh he bent penetrating eyes upon the rider. “Thanks, cowboy. But we don’t need any riders.”

  “Aw, you’ll always need a boy like me on this heah ranch,” returned Corny, coolly.

  “Suppose you tell us just why you think that.”

  “Wal, I see you have a lot of redskin hunters to pack meat in, an’ greaser farm-hands to dig fencepost holes, an’ you shore have some riders judgin’ from this heah nice-lookin’ low-laiged chap. An’ your foreman is lookin’ me over pretty pert, which shows he’s not to be fooled by lousy no-good strangers rollin’ in.”

  “Well?” demanded the rancher, sharply, as Corny paused.

  “So I just thought you ought to take me on.”

  “Cowboy, you’ve got nerve. Get down and make yourself at home. Stay to supper with the men. But don’t bother me any more.”

  “Sorry, boss, to bother you,” drawled Corny. “But this is serious for me. I heahed down on the trail that you never turned a rider away from Latch’s Field.”

  “Didn’t I ask you to stay to supper?”

  “Shore. An’ thanks. But I want a job with you.”

  “What kind of a job?” demanded Latch, his keen eyes studying the rider.

  “Aw, I can do most anythin’ aboot a ranch that isn’t hard work. But my specialty is heah,” drawled Corny, and then, in a flash, there he was extending a gun by the barrel.

  “Oh, I savvy,” declared the rancher, slowly taking the gun. His mobile hand closed over the butt and Corny knew that he felt the notches there. Then he looked up with a peculiar gleam in his falcon eyes and returned the gun to Corny. “Are you drunk, son, that you brag of gun-play?”

  “Nope. I’m not the bottle-Iovin’ kind, Mr. Latch. I just had a hunch you might need a handy hombre like me. An’ if you want to know, ridin’ heah to Latch’s Field hasn’t changed my mind.”

  The bow-legged cowman gave a snort and, throwing up his hands, strode away into the barn.

  “I’m sorry, son,” returned Latch, apparently in doubt of both his visitor and himself. “But despite your nerve and your estimate of your worth and my needs—I don’t want you.”

  “No offense, I’m shore,” replied Corny, shifting his leg back over the pommel, and turned his horse away. When he got a few paces distant he heard the foreman say to Latch:

  “Boss, let me call that cowboy back. Thar’s somethin’——”

  Corny distinguished no more. He rode out satisfied that he had gau
ged Latch correctly. If the rancher had not really been in trouble, had not been haunted by enemies, he would have reacted differently to Corny’s cryptic proposal. “Good!” soliloquized Corny, falling into his habit of lonely trail driving. “He shore needs me, but wouldn’t take me on. That’ll give me a chance to size up this heah town…. Wal, wal! An’ what’ll little Estelle say aboot this? Dog-gone! If I don’t miss my guess she’ll raise hell with Dad.”

  CHAPTER

  13

  LATCH’S joy at the return of Estelle, the precious treasure for which he labored and fought and lived, minimized the multiplicity of troubles that assailed him. With Cynthia’s daughter in the house, puttering and bossing around, singing new songs, screaming in delight with her girl friends, revealing her love for him in a hundred ways, Latch’s spirit leaped to its former heights. Cynthia had been eighteen years old when he met her first, a reserved, dignified young woman—still water running deep. Yet this gay teasing little minx reminded him endlessly of her mother. Her mouth and her voice were Cynthia’s.

  It was impossible for him not to be happy. Nothing could have killed that deep, rich, wonderful joy except for Estelle to discover the truth about his terrible past. She worshiped him, she believed him a hero of the West, a blue-blooded Southerner who had devoted his life to placating the savages, to making friends with them, to keeping open house for all the wanderers of the range. To her he was good and great—a father to be proud of. Yet Latch lived perpetually in a haunting fear—that his sins would overtake him—that Estelle would find him out. And he would die with his back to the wall to keep his secret.

  “Dad, I’m home—home to stay!” she cried, with her arms around his neck. “I’m not going back to that dog-gone school.”

  “ ‘Dog-gone’! Surely you didn’t learn that lingo in Miss Delorme’s school?”

  “No, I didn’t. And I like it better than French. Dad, I should have taken Spanish. Why, most of your help speak Spanish.”

  “Mexican, my dear…. But you must go back to school with your friends.”