The Lost Wagon Train

by Zane Grey

  Latch sat there a long while, until he sensed a release from fetters. Estelle would not be left alone now. That young man could protect her, else Latch’s years of judgment on the border had gone for naught. A husband, a fighter, a Texan—these were infinitely to be desired. Estelle would love so deeply and passionately, as had her mother, that life would still be worth living, even if ruin and disgrace befell her.

  Against these Latch girded up his loins for a last battle. All agony, it seemed, had been his, except the agony of seeing the daughter of the woman who had worshiped him, the blood of his blood, learn of his infamy and turn from him in loathing. That would be too much for human endurance. He must forestall it; and freed from the terror of leaving Estelle alone, he rose like an old battle-scarred lion, ready for a last charge.

  CHAPTER

  16

  IN the gray dawn the ranch-house was dark and quiet. A pale moon, yielding to the break of day, hung over the bluff. Fires still smoldered in the encampment of the Indians; dogs belonging to the caravan bayed the yelping coyotes; oxen grazed over the obscure meadows. The last dark group of riders filed out upon the trail to the north.

  Latch sat by his open window where he had lingered for hours. When the sun tipped the prairie horizon far down to the purple east he would be on his way to execute the tragic plan that had evolved from his travail. Leighton and his inseparables, after a night of gorging and drinking, would be asleep. Latch meant to force entrance to the room he had located long ago and kill his archenemy and the others. He had accepted his own death as the cost of this sinister deliverance. There seemed still time to forestall Leighton’s extreme machination. Latch saw clearly that proof of his crimes would pass with Leighton and his associates. There would be left only the old doubt of his early years on the frontier. It was the eleventh hour and a terrible ruthless peace settled upon his soul. Thought of Estelle he banished.

  Soon a red rim of sun peeped over the purple land. He welcomed it. Buckling on a heavy belt weighted with two guns and a ring of shells he left his room, stole down the back stairs and out into the yard. He made a point of securing a double-bitted ax from the woodshed. Then he cut across the orchard into the meadow, and circling the west end of town he worked his way through shacks and brush to the narrow lane that led in to Leighton’s place.

  The high gate was open. He heard horses thumping in the barn. He saw the stairway leading up the back of the big structure. An open door—dark, inviting! As he strode swiftly across the yard he thought he heard voices. But he closed his ears. Looking neither to right nor left, he gained the stairway and started up stealthily. Every step seemed to carry him higher and closer to the old Stephen Latch. He changed back in the climb. He retrogressed to the primitive which had found such terrible expression in the days of Satana. He was true to the stronger self now. All the love, the remorse, the strife were as if they had never been. His veins swelled with swift-gushing rivers of hot blood. Leighton! If luck favored him, this double-bladed ax would bury its shining head in his kinsman. Latch would rip the revengeful fiend open from throat to groin. Latch burned with unholy and unquenchable hate—with longing to have Leighton recognize his executioner—to suffer a horrible passion of defeat and agony of flesh while his heart’s blood flooded out.

  Latch reached the landing. He stepped into the hall. Door open on the right—room in disorder—bed had not been slept in. Other doors along the hall were not shut. Suddenly Latch saw a man’s head and shoulders lying across the threshold of the last door on the left. Leighton’s room! Latch rested the ax against the wall, and drawing a gun he leaped forward. One swift glance showed Leighton’s room empty. Then Latch looked down. He straddled a dead Mexican—one Jaurez, long attached to Leighton. His skull had been split. Next Latch’s swift sight took in the smashed door, the scattered articles of clothing on the floor, bureau drawers thrown to the right and left, and in a corner a demolished trunk. An old-fashioned trunk of French make—that had surely come from New Orleans! It had been forced open with the bloody ax which lay near, and rifled. A ruthless and powerful hand had preceded Latch. Some one had robbed Leighton while he and his comrades had attended Estelle’s fiesta.

  Latch rushed out and down the stairs, his plan disrupted, his thoughts in a whirl, his emotions undergoing another cycle. Once out in the lane, he slowed his gait and sheathed his gun. He went back the way he had come and hid in a clump of willows. From passion to reasoning was in this hour a slow process. But in the end he achieved it.

  Latchfield had been full of outlaws the preceding night. He was logical to suppose that one of them had killed Leighton’s man and ransacked the room. Yet the idea did not hold in Latch’s consciousness. Something uncanny entered into all conjecture. Latch began to conceive that the slaying, the robbery, the evidence of tangible hostility to the powerful Leighton, bore some strange relation to himself.

  “Slim Blue!” muttered Latch, as if struck by an arrow of thought. “What did he mean by waiting? Waiting! …He told Estie. She understood…. Last night—this morning—what a queer look!…So help me God!”

  He heard horses go down the road at a gallop, and others trot by in the opposite direction. The town had awakened. Had it ever gone to sleep? Latch emerged from his hiding-place, and crossing the creek to the road, he faced town and stalked like a man whom it would be dangerous to meet.

  But Latch did not get halfway down to the center of town. A knot of men, suddenly disintegrating in excitement, to turn back out of sight, dull pistol shots coming from indoors somewhere, hoarse shouts—these gave Latch pause, though they did not stop him. Smoke from guns, probably, was rising in the street. The hour might not be an auspicious one for his own purpose.

  As Latch faced about to return to the ranch he saw the long line of canvas-covered wagons and yokes of wagging oxen stretched across the flat toward the break in the hill. The caravan was on the road to Fort Union with its escort of soldiers. Then Latch remembered that Estelle’s friends were to travel with this caravan as far as the fort, and then transfer to a south-bound caravan. No doubt one of the many riders alongside the wagons was Estelle, who had promised Marcella and Elizabeth that she would ride to the top of the hill with them. Latch felt relieved that he need not expect to face her soon. Could it be that only last night the long-planned party had taken place? Then straightway in the press of his dark, fixed thoughts he forgot her.

  He did not notice that it was hot, though he stopped in the shade of the cottonwoods around the second lake. He sat down the better to think. In this peaceful secluded spot the glare of valley, the bray of burros, the clip-clop of hoofs, were shut out. Still there seemed an unnatural tension in the very air. Again he arose to plod on to the first lake where the shady nook, the big oak, the gurgling water over the stone steps, recalled Estelle’s incredible rendezvous with the trail driver. He could not linger there. He paced up and down an aisle of the orchard. Presently he smelled smoke and imagined he heard the distant hoarse voices of men. But he paid no particular attention. What he strove to recapture in its entirety was that mood of the night.

  Nevertheless, disturbances from outside broke into his great distraction. Yells of a kind not to be ignored brought Latch to his feet, thrilling and chilled. Again he heard horses, this time on a furious run. Incredible as it seemed, something must be amiss outside of his own mind. He hurried toward the house, and when he got out in the lane espied Simmons running toward him. The bow-legged cowman, unused to such mode of locomotion, did not make fast time. At sight of Latch he shouted. The rancher had only to see his foreman’s pallid sweaty face to grasp at catastrophe. As of old, his nerve and force rose to meet it.

  “My Gawd—boss—I been—huntin’—you all—over!” gasped Simmons as he panted to a stop.

  “What’s up, man?” queried Latch, sharply.

  “Hell-to-pay.”

  “Where?”

  “At the corrals…. Come.”

  Latch lined up beside the cowman and waited. He wa
s perfectly sure of Estelle’s safety for the present, and nothing else mattered.

  “Boss, lissen… I was sleepin’—in the barn. Was woke up about seven by loud talkin’. Somebody razzin’ Keetch. I peeped out an’ seen Keetch standin’ ag’in the corral fence—facin’ half a dozen men… Didn’t recognize nobody—till I heard Leighton’s voice. Seen him then—only one on foot. He was wavin’ a gun—an’ his fist in Keetch’s face. He was as hoarse as—a bull—an’ so mad I couldn’t git the drift of his talk. But I understood Keetch—all right.”

  “Hurry. Go on,” ordered Latch as the man stopped to catch his breath.

  “‘Leighton, you’re drunk,’ says Keetch, sarcastic as hell. ‘I jest got oot of bed. Slept in my clothes.’

  “ ‘You’re a —— ——liar,’ bawled Leighton. ‘Nobody knew I had those documents. You sneaked over to my room—last night—when we were all makin’ merry—you brained José—an’ robbed me. No money gone—nothin’ but thet leather wallet—which only you knew about.’

  “ ‘Leighton, there was two hard-nut ootfits in camp last night. Gone at daybreak!’

  “ ‘But —— ——you! I tell you nobody else knew about that wallet…. You dig it up pronto or I’ll shoot your guts oot!’

  “ ‘Sorry I cain’t oblige you. I was asleep till you rousted me oot. An’ I can prove thet.’

  “You haven’t got it!’ screamed Leighton, poking his gun in Keetch’s belly.

  “Then Kennedy chipped in, nasty like: ‘Lee, you’re wastin’ time on your old pard. Thet job was done too swift for a man on a crutch…. But fer Gawd’s sake plug him if it’ll fetch you to your senses.”

  “‘ —— ——the luck!’ roared Leighton, foamin’ at the mouth. ‘It had to be Keetch who stole my wallet. There wasn’t any money. Only he knew those papers an’ letters were worth a million to me!’

  “Then Kennedy cussed Leighton good, an’ Manley added some. They wanted to get out of here. But Leighton was beside himself. I never seen a man so furious. Somethin’ more’n fury, too, believe me. He just couldn’t give up hectorin’ Keetch about the stolen property. All the same, whether Keetch seen thet wallet or no, thet was his finish. I’ll bet if he’d been packin’ a gun he’d a mixed it with Leighton’s company right there.

  “ ‘Once more,’ he bellared. ‘I’ll give you ten thousand dollars for my wallet.’

  “ ‘Say, Leighton, if I’d knowed it was so valuable I’d stole it myself long ago,’ replied Keetch, cool as a cucumber. ‘But git over the idee no other man knowed you had it.’

  “ ‘Who?’ screamed Leighton, dancin’ up an’ down.

  “ ‘Wal, I ain’t tellin’,’ laughed Keetch.

  “ ‘Latch! I’ll burn the secret out of him with a brandin’-iron!’

  “ ‘Nope, not my boss. I was feared to tell him.’

  “ ‘Did you tell any man?’

  “ ‘Haw! Haw!… Leighton, you’re barkin’ up the wrong tree. You’ve waited too long with your deal. An’ I’ve kept my mouth shet too long.’

  “ ‘Then, by hell! you’ll never open it to him,’ yelled Leighton, an’ he turned thet big Colt loose on Keetch. When Keetch slid down Leighton piled on his hoss an’ all of them rid away. I run out, yellin’ for anybody. Kneelin’ by Keetch, I seen he was all in. But he made me understand he had somethin’ awful important to tell you. So I run after you—an’ I’ve been huntin’ ever since. Nobody at the house or in the camps had seen you. Miss Estie an’ José rode out with the caravan…. I reckon we’ll be too late.”

  “Simmons, you should have taken Keetch’s statement, then come for me,” declared Latch, grimly, as his dark imaginings leaped to conclusions. Swifter he strode on until he was almost running. They reached the corrals, crossed the court to the great barn where a group of vaqueros had congregated. Keetch lay inside the door, covered with a blanket. Simmons drew it back to expose the old outlaw’s face. Whatever had been his wrong to Latch and the secret he had withheld, Latch forgave him in that moment. Considering all circumstances, Keetch had been exceedingly faithful. Latch gave orders to bury him out under the walnut tree that shaded his wife’s grave.

  At this juncture Benson rode into the court, the iron-shod hoofs of his horse ringing on the stones. He scattered the riders and leaped off, his blue eyes gleaming.

  “Latch, your party last night upset Latchfield,” he began, hurriedly, and then, espying the dead man, he gave a start and gaped while his perturbed face turned gray. “Keetch!… Who shot him, boss?”

  “Leighton. Did you see him in town?”

  “Ha! I reckon. An’ if I’d been blind I’d have heard him,” declared Benson. “He’s a ravin’ lunatic. Somebody set fire to his house before he got back. Nothin’ saved but some liquor.”

  “Fire!”

  “Gosh! I should say so! Where have you been? All the Indians were there. An’ the town turned out. Leighton was burned clean. Also half the block on his side of the street. Damn good riddance! But that isn’t all by a jugful. It appears there’s been shootin’ since early mornin’. Nobody I seen knew much about it. One of Billy the Kid’s outfit shot a member of Black Jack’s gang. That must have been to get up an appetite for breakfast. Both outlaw gangs sloped pronto. I met Mizzouri, an’ he had a heap to say about the killin’ of Nigger Johnson. He said…”

  “Johnson!” ejaculated Latch, startled in spite of the steely calm that had settled upon him.

  “Yes. Johnson is dead as a door nail. I seen him lyin’ on the sidewalk. Shot plumb between the eyes! Back of his head blown off, where the bullet come out.”

  “More of Leighton’s work?”

  “I guess not. Mizzouri said thet trail-drivin’ cowboy, Slim Blue, was crazy drunk an’ runnin’ amuck. Thet was before Leighton’s saloon was fired. Early this mornin’, Mizzouri said. He was with Johnson an’ they’d stopped at the Smith store. They had a hoss hitched there, an’ also a buckboard. Blue came slouchin’ along, wild-eyed. Howdy, Niggah!’ he yelled. Throw thet gun you’re packin,’ so my borin’ you won’t look so bad.’… Johnson tried to reason with the cowboy. But it didn’t do no good. Mizzouri made tracks to one side. Then it seems Blue cussed thet nigger somethin’ scandalous, dared him to draw, swore he hated all niggers an’ wouldn’t have none in Latchfield. Johnson went in Smith’s store. Blue followed, kickin’ him as he’d kick a mean dog, drove him out again. Then Mizzouri said Blue went close to Johnson an’ whispered somethin’ nobody else could hear. But half a dozen men swore they seen thet black nigger turn white an’ go for his gun. He never even got it out.”

  “Slim Blue!” cried Simmons. “Thet cowboy from the Chisholm Trail?… Gosh, boss, but all this has a funny look!”

  “Strikes me as it struck Mizzouri—damn queer,” retorted Benson, after waiting in vain for a comment from Latch. “But let me go on…. Blue staggered on down the sidewalk, an’ finally disappeared, accordin’ to Mizzouri. Well, thet’s all from him. But listen to this from me. When I rode into town Rankin wasn’t up. Nor his sons. Too much party! My hoss had thrown a shoe on the way over an’ had gone lame. I went to Martinez, the greaser who has a shop back of Leighton’s. An’ while I was there I seen Slim Blue come ridin’ up the alley. Say, he was movin’. I had a good look at him, an’ if he was drunk, so am I right this minute. Martinez was bend-in’ over his job, so didn’t see Blue. A little later I seen smoke rollin’ up from the back of Leighton’s house. Then come a big puff an’ a roar. Thet old wood house busted into flames. Martinez had the shoe half nailed on when I lit in the saddle an’ sloped. I shore didn’t want to be caught behind thet burnin’ house. I rode around an’ come up the street, tied my hoss way down an’ walked. Not many people seen the fire fust off. Only a few men run in to pack out kegs. I wasn’t one of them. Then the Indians came, an’ after them the townspeople. In half an hour Leighton’s place an’ four other houses were burned flat. About this time Leighton an’ his outfit raced up the street. I happened to be near where they piled off. Leighton
looked hell bent. I reckoned it no longer any place for me, so I hustled back to my horse.”

  Latch kept his deductions to himself. They were bewildering and subject to change with each new angle of thought. Simmons and Benson exchanged wondering conjectures and queries, while Latch paced to and fro beside the covered body of his old ally. What would Keetch have advised him in this climax? Latch divined that he must speedily anticipate a thunderbolt in shape of Leighton’s next move. Instead of hunting down his enemy, Latch now waited to be hunted. And similarly he must look for paralleling action from the mysterious Slim Blue. Too late Latch realized his blind attitude toward that youth. With what a shock did he place this Slim Blue on the same plane with Lester Cornwall! Only it began to dawn on Latch that Blue was subtler, deeper, which traits added to his terrible skill with guns, made him more dangerous to Latch’s foes. If Blue turned up again, as seemed inevitable, Latch would know beyond doubt that through Estelle he had gained the most formidable ally who had ever in all these desperate years shed blood for him. And the mounting conviction began to take hold of Latch’s maddening thoughts, to work order out of chaos, to burn away the ever-encroaching tendency to despair, to inspire, to uplift, to rouse the drum of old passion, to flash again the lightning of his once unquenchable spirit.

  “Simmons, saddle a fast horse and ride at once up to the house,” said Latch, suddenly. “I want you to take a note to Estelle. You should intercept her on the way home. You will see that she goes on with the caravan to Fort Union.”

  “Yes, sir,” replied the foreman, and with a yell to the vaquero he ran into the barn.

  He was about to give orders to Benson when new arrivals across the court gave him pause, while a hand gripped his gun. But the riders were Mizzouri, Seth Cole, and Jerry Bain. Latch watched them approach. At last the old guard had proved true to the past.