by Zane Grey
“Kill Dad! That mangy-faced lout!” cried Estelle, incredulously.
“Wal, from Leighton’s angle it’s not such poor figurin’. Leighton would never meet Latch in the open, man to man. He’s too clever. He’ll have some of his henchmen shoot Latch unawares. Shore they plan to kill Keetch an’ Benson. Maybe Mizzouri, too, an’ other men who owe your Dad so much.”
“Murder!” gasped Estelle.
“Wal, that’s a high-soundin’ word, Estelle, for this border.”
“How awful!… So that is the secret? Poor dear Dad! Fighting to conceal his trouble, his prospective ruin, from me.”
“That’s the whole story, Estelle.”
“Oh, I feared I—I know not what,” she cried, poignantly, throwing wide her arms. “Something weighed upon my soul! I never dared name it in my consciousness…. And it’s only debt, hatred, villainy!”
“That’s aboot all, I reckon.”
“Dad is all I’ve loved since I was a baby. Since he came home—and I went to him—there!—at Mother’s grave.”
“Yes, girl, he is all you’ve loved. Latch is one of the West’s great men. Great as Maxwell or Chisholm or St. Vrain or Carson—any of them. Generous, fine, noble, a grand friend, a bad foe, hard in his early days because he had to be hard to survive. But honest, clean, good as gold! He has made enemies, not all of whom he has killed. Worse luck! An’ now when he’s gettin’ on in years an’ has you to make him tender, Leighton—the worst of his enemies—has plotted all this ruin, worked it through the years, nursin’ his hate an’ revenge—Estelle, don’t ever have another doubt of your Dad.”
“Never!… Slim Blue, I love you,” she whispered, and slipped off the branch into his arms.
Corny held her off her feet, aware of clinging arms, of a heaving breast, of kisses, of sweet fire. But he seemed passive, obstructed.
“There!… Let me down…. Our—our lovemaking can wait…. Corny Cornwall, you have given me back something precious. Bless you! …I will keep your secret. I am no longer frightened sick. You are my friend and Dad’s saviour. Don’t let thought of me hamper you. I’m Western, Corny. I was born up that black canyon.”
“Wal, it shore—was lucky—for me,” replied Corny, haltingly.
“I must go now.… I’ll see you soon. At my party?
I’ve the loveliest dress. I want you to see me in it…. Corny, you don’t speak!”
“How can I—when I’m struck dumb?”
“You will come?”
“Yes, Estelle, I’ll come. Now you run back an’ leave me heah to moon.”
“Goodnight—Slim,” she whispered, and made as if to lift her lips again. But she suddenly wheeled and fled out into the moonlight, a swift dark form, soon disappearing.
CHAPTER
15
LATCH had long been aware of the growing estrangement between him and his two best friends in the valley, Webb and Bartlett. He had tried to blind himself to this dismaying fact, as to so many others, but it would not down. Webb was not a Southerner. He had come from Illinois with his large family, and was a man of means and influence. Bartlett was a squaw-man and stood high in the good-will of the Indians. Latch could not afford to lose the respect and friendship of either if he were to continue to hold his own in Latchfield. He met them in town on the day before Estelle’s party and thought it a good opportunity to learn his exact status.
“Bart, you’re coming to my girl’s party,” he queried, heartily.
“Wal, I wasn’t, Steve,” replied the blunt rancher, his gray eyes hard on Latch.
“Why not? I’d take it as a personal insult if you didn’t. And that goes for your wife and daughter. Estelle is fond of Wilda.”
“Damn it all, Sam,” rejoined Bartlett, turning to Webb. “Thet’s true. An’ I’m gonna stick by Latch, talk or no talk.”
Webb had lived long enough in the West to understand the delicacy of the situation. But he was a forceful character. His light-blue eyes held a penetrating suspicion as he met Latch’s.
“Sorry, Latch. My family is not coming.”
“No?… Anybody ill?” queried Latch, slowly.
“All well. And the truth is they want to come. But I’ve about decided against it.”
“Oh!—You have? May I inquire why?”
“Latch, I’ll be glad to tell you,” returned Webb, hurriedly. “It’s this talk of Leighton’s——”
“Keep yore fool mouth shet!” interrupted Bartlett.
“Too late, Bart,” said Latch, coldly. “What talk, Webb?”
“There’s been strange whispers for a long time, Latch. But only lately could they be traced. Your past has always been sort of shady. You settled this valley and kept open house to all. I certainly didn’t know Latchfield had been a rendezvous for desperadoes or I’d never have located here. Leighton is spreading this poison. Just hints and whispers! And they have not become general yet. But some of us are damned concerned, I don’t mind telling you.”
“So it seems,” replied Latch, in biting tone. “You must be damn concerned to mention this to my face. I can only take it that you believe my enemies.”
“Latch, I wouldn’t go so far,” said Webb, nervously. “It’s just that I—I don’t like it—I don’t want my family to hear of it.”
“I understand perfectly, Webb,” responded Latch, curtly. “I’ve no hard feelings yet. But if you and your high-toned family don’t come to Estelle’s party I will know on what side of the fence you sit. And in that case you can go for your gun when next we meet,”
“Wha—at?” cracked Webb.
“Good-day…. Bart, I’m thanking you for your faith in me,” returned Latch.
Whereupon Webb blurted out: “Why in hell don’t you go for your gun—if this man Leighton is a liar?”
Latch strode on down the street, with that retort ringing like a bell in his ears. Why indeed? Why did he not finish the job he had once begun on Leighton? The answer paralleled every question of his life at that time—Estelle. She had seen him kill one man. She had been terror-stricken at the encounter and then shocked at the killing. That had been years ago. Estelle had begun to reveal an assimilation of the West if not a direct heritage. Delicate, sensitive, high-strung as she was, she was in no sense a weakling. To hurt her feelings probably could not be avoided. To lose her love, which was so precious to him, was not the vital thing. Her honor, her name, her happiness—these must be preserved at any cost.
Latch had reached the hitching-rail where he had tied his horse, when he encountered the young trail driver, Slim Blue, He sustained a violent shock. In the mood under which he labored, weighed upon by dread, to be so suddenly reminded of Cornwall and the bloody past was enough to make Latch furious.
“Howdy, boss,” drawled the youth, leaning over the rail.
“Howdy yourself, you damned flour-flusher,” retorted Latch.
“Yeah? … Wal, I shore haven’t been drawin’ any aces lately.”
“I hear you are slick at slipping aces from the deck.”
“Wal, boss, I see Webb an’ Bartlett have riled you.”
“I’m riled, all right.”
“I heahed that last crack of Webb’s aboot why’n’ hell you didn’t draw on Leighton.”
Latch had been affronted before he encountered Blue. So that he did not need much invitation to inflame him unreasonably. He realized that his old cool nerve had failed him and he fought to get it back. This youth looked at him with Cornwall’s flashing blue eyes, and that in itself was enough. Latch had loved his strange boy lieutenant. And this trail driver seemed to exercise the same baffling fascination. Another youth gone wrong! Another daredevil of the times! Then it suddenly flashed into Latch’s memory that Slim Blue had followed up his service to Estelle by vague hints of the same to her father. Cowboy blarney! Only another bitter drop to Latch’s overflowing cup of disappointment!
“Some more of your nosey work,” declared Latch. “Blue, I’m reminded of queer talk about you.”
&n
bsp; “Shore. An’ thet reminds me of the same I heah aboot you,” drawled the trail driver.
“You insolent cow-puncher!”
“Latch, heah’s another hunch,” flashed Blue while his piercing eyes transfixed the rancher. “Stay away from your old pards down the valley road. ’Specially Nigger Johnson! Stay away from town! Stay away from the corrals…. Better—stay indoors! Do you savvy, boss?”
“Hellsfire! I hear you, but I don’t understand.”
“Wal, you can figure it out. But don’t never look for an even break in Latchfield. Not with Leighton holdin’ the cairds!”
“Thanks, Blue. Naturally your association with the low-down outfit would result in your hearing things. Am I to assume that that is why you spend your days and nights in Leighton’s?”
“Latch, you can think what you like aboot me.”
“All right. And it’ll be no good. I’ll thank you to stay away from Estelle’s party.”
“Ump-umm, boss. You invited everybody in this heah valley. Good an’ bad! An’, by golly, I wouldn’t miss it for a million.”
“Blue, if you come I’ll throw you out.”
“Aw, boss, you just couldn’t do that,” expostulated the trail driver, spreading his hands.
“I could and I would.”
“But you’d be most turrible damn sorry afterwards. Miss Estelle her own self would say that’d be strange Southern hospitality.”
“You conceited loafer! Do you dare insinuate my daughter would think anything of what concerned you?”
“Shore. I’ll gamble on it,” drawled Blue, with his slow winning smile. That smile alone saved Latch from slapping his handsome face.
“All right, Blue. You come, and see what happens,” concluded Latch as he mounted his horse.
“Anyways, boss, you’ll need me turrible bad when Leighton’s outfit——”
Latch heard no more. He rode away at a trot, hot and uncomfortable, wholly dissatisfied with himself. Little by little one thing and another had accumulated in a great whole which, added to the Nemesis that had overshadowed him for years, presaged inevitable catastrophe. What could he do? To whom could he turn? Keetch was faithful, but had an inexplicable fear of Leighton. Benson could not be told. There was no one else. If only that sharp-eyed inscrutable trail driver had lived up to the impression he had created! Latch rode toward the corrals at his wits’ end.
Half a dozen dusty riders had just come in. Weary pack-horses attested to long and arduous travel. Keetch and Simmons, with the vaqueros looking on, were talking to the arrivals. When Latch’s horse turned into the wide court all faces looked his way. Keetch swung awkwardly upon his crutch, heading toward Latch.
“Billy the Kid ootfit,” he said in a swift undertone. “I know Charley Bondre. They’re all right when you’re friendly. I advise you to make good on your old rule.”
Latch rode up to the group, his gaze centering upon the man he intuitively took to be the young desperado already infamous on the frontier.
“Howdy, men. Get down and come in,” Latch greeted them, cordially. “Keetch will take care of you.”
“Much obliged. We’re shore fagged,” replied the youth. He appeared no more than a stripling of eighteen. His garb was ragged. A lock of light hair stuck out of his old sombrero. He wore his gun on the left side, rather high, with the flat end of the butt facing out—a fact that struck Latch singularly. Billy the Kid, despite his youth, already numbered killings equal in number to his years. He had a remarkable physiognomy, and would have been good-looking but for a prominent tooth. His eyes would have lent decided character to any face. They were either light gray or blue, but the color was uncertain. It was the look in them that held Latch. Another Cornwall or another Slim Blue, magnified in all ways! Billy the Kid was only another manifestation of the extreme of character, of wild life, developed at a wild time.
“I don’t need to ask if you’ve come far,” went on Latch.
“You bet we’ve come far, Mr. Latch,” replied the outlaw. “Sixty miles today, I reckon. An’ all to see you.”
“Well, that’s complimentary, I hope,” said Latch, easily. “I still keep open house to all riders.”
“So we heard. But we didn’t come to try your well-known hospitality.”
“No? What for, then?”
“We took a bunch of Chissum’s cattle down the Pecos an’ across at Horsehead, round to the north of the Staked Plains. Sold to a trail driver at Red River. Well, on our way up the Canadian we run plum into an outfit drivin’ a big herd of long horns wearin’ your brand. It may strike you funny that we steal one rancher’s cattle, then ride out of our way to squeal on an outfit who’s stealin’ yours. But I, for one, didn’t want this last laid on to me.”
“Ha! Ha! Funny? Sure, it strikes me funny…. Keetch, what do you know about it?”
“News to me, boss,” returned Keetch, intensely interested. “An’ if it’s true we’re cleared oot proper.”
“You can gamble on my word, Mr. Latch,” returned Billy the Kid. “We didn’t know the cattle were yours until a settler told us yesterday. So we rode up pronto. That’s all I can say, Mr. Latch. An’ if your invite still holds we’ll be only too glad to stay an’ rest up a couple of days. I’ve long heard of Latch’s Field.”
“You’re welcome, and thanks for the tip. Drop over after supper, you and Bondre, and smoke a cigar with me. Maybe you might have some news of outside.”
“Shore have. Been to Dodge, Old Bent, an’ Fort Union lately.”
Latch left his horse, and telling Keetch to come up as soon as the visitors had been made comfortable, he wended a thoughtful way toward the ranch-house, muttering to himself: “The plot thickens…. Last of my stock…. Leighton back of this…. It ruins me…. By God! I’m a driven man!”
He found Estelle and her friends in the living-room, so gay and merry that he transformed his gloomy face as if by magic. He would deceive his daughter to the last moment. But something had to be told her.
“Girls, we have a visitor—one of the most infamous of Western outlaws—a boy still in his teens. No less than Billy the Kid.”
“How lovely!” cried Elizabeth, ecstatically.
“Billy the Kid?” questioned Estelle, puckering her smooth brow. “Dad, could we ask him to my party?”
“Certainly. It will be something to tell your grandchildren some day.”
Estelle blushed and the girls launched into gay badinage.
“I think Billy just happened along Latchfield way,” went on Latch. “But usually visits of his to any town result in excitement, not to say worse. Perhaps our sleepy village is due for some,”
“I shall flirt outrageously with Billy the Kid,” averred Marcella.
But Estelle’s violet eyes took the old darkly troubled expression. She had heard something. Latch left the room with brutal blows knocking at the gate of his heart. Were all his years of remorse, of travail, of fight to go for naught? Must he see this lovely innocent lass plunged into blackest misery? He went to his room, and barring himself in, sat at a window, seeing nothing of the glorious panorama spread out before him. “Wages of sin!” he whispered. “Oh, God!—burn me in hell forever—but save Estelle!… Oh, Estelle, my lass—my lass!… Oh, Cynthia, my beloved! Would to Heaven you had been murdered that black day!”
Keetch sought him presently, coming with slow thumps up the stairs, and knocked reluctantly.
“Come in,” called Latch, and made no effort to conceal his passion-spent face.
The crippled old outlaw entered, haggard and hard, to fasten revealing eyes upon his master. Latch motioned him to a seat, poured out a glass of liquor, and waited.
“Did your uaqueros substantiate Billy the Kid’s claim about my herd?” finally queried Latch.
“Ahuh! …No riders in from down the valley. Reckon they’ve been shot or druv off. I’ve been worried like hell for two days…. Boss, the Kid didn’t lie. Fust off, Billy the Kid is not the kind of hombre who lies. You can gamble we�
�re cleaned of our last stock.”
“Sold out to a trail driver!… Keetch, is there no redress? Think of a well-known brand three thousand strong!”
“Hell! If we could prove who done it there’d be redress all right. But we also know thet riders strange to us stole our cattle an’ sold them to strangers on the Old Trail. Before we could ride to Dodge or Abilene they’ll be gone—You’re oot forty-five thousand dollars, an’ we’re robbed, done, stuck, ruined, by Gawd!”
“Financially, yes. But that is nothing, Keetch,” replied Latch.
“Man alive! You’re broke. You’re deep in debt. An’ Leighton has got hold of all your papers. He will take your ranch away from you.”
“Over my dead body!”
“Wal, Leighton has been layin’ for sixteen years to see yore daid body. But he’ll ruin you fust, disgrace you, blacken your good name. An’ last, old pard, I know he has some hellish idee of torturin’ you through Estie.”
“How do you know?”
“I heerd him say so.”
“To whom?”
“Me.”
“When?”
“Last time I seen him. I may as well tell you that he gave me a chance to swing over to him.”
“Keetch, what hold has Leighton on you?”
“I double-crossed you years ago—The honor among thieves didn’t work with me then. But it has been a thorn in my flesh. If I had my life to live over again I’d not do it.”
“Ah!… Keetch, old pard, how did you double-cross me?”
“No need to tell now, boss. You’ll know after I’m daid. An’ I’ve a bloomy feelin’ thet won’t be long.”
“You should have told me before. I’d have forgiven then. I do now. You have been most loyal to me…. So Leighton wanted you to jump me?”
“Yes, he shore did. I don’t know his plot, boss. But it has had a long, long hatchin’… Now we got our backs to the ditch. I’m stumped.”
“There’s a way out,” replied Latch, with a deep sigh.
“Shore. But where—how—what? You an’ me ag’in a whole ootfit! What I’m so turrible feared is thet you’ll walk oot to kill Leighton. Course I’ll go with you. An’ no use deceivin’ ourselves, we cain’t kill Leighton, save by a lucky chance which ain’t cornin’ our way these days. Thet leaves Estie to these wolves. Leighton never goes out alone. He has his body-guard round him all the time. He’s watchin’ like a hawk for a gopher. Bruce Kennedy is Leighton’s right-hand man. Crooked, or I don’t know men. If you had enough cash you could switch Kennedy to our side. Smilin’ Jacobs an’ Wess Manley air both gun-slingers. Either of them could beat you an’ me to a gun. An’ they have their ootfit.”
