The Lost Wagon Train

by Zane Grey

  “Colonel, heah’s your ranch,” spoke up young Cornwall. “And right heah I’m applying for the job of foreman.”

  “Right heah you get it, Lester,” declared Latch, in a glow and flush of feeling which obliterated for the moment how vain his dream was. He knew the Kiowa would trade him this land for guns, trinkets, rum, and then fight to help him keep it.

  “Keetch, you called the trick,” the leader rang out. “Latch’s Field!”

  Before dark the Indian hunters returned to camp with buffalo meat, and soon the air was full of the appetizing odor of rump steak, that much-desired delicacy of the plains. Latch ate heartily, and after the meal he walked apart from the members of his band. The long strenuous ride and the conflict of feelings had exhausted him. Soon he sought rest under the cottonwood where he had taken the precaution to put his saddle, bed, and pack with the kegs of rum.

  His own men appeared to be a mixed group of merry and somber members. And Latch’s keen ears registered the fact that Leighton’s coterie of outlaws belonged to the latter. Satana’s warriors feasted long and noisily on the choice viands of buffalo meat. He heard Keetch say the “damned red-skinned hawgs ate up five whole buffalo.”

  Down here in the open, where it was almost prairie, Latch lost the sense of security and insulation furnished by Spider Web Canyon. This field lay at the edge of the plains, high ground without apparent slope, and subject to all the characteristics of prairieland. In the distance bands of wolves chased their quarry, with wild deep bays as of hounds gone mad. Close at hand, bands of coyotes made the night hideous with their sharp yelps. Nevertheless, Latch slept soundly and awoke under the white stars of dawn, rested and himself again.

  It was just break of day when Keetch called the men to their meal. “Fill up, you sons-of-guns, an’ what you can’t eat pack in your pockets. It’ll be a long drill today an’ no cookin’ at the end of it, if I don’t miss my guess.”

  Latch hoped the Kiowas would lead off down through the wonderful field, so that he could estimate its size and characteristics. But they took a course straight north, climbed out over the bluff to the uplands, and strung out, a marvelous cavalcade of color, wildness, and movement. From the last high point Latch gazed back and down upon the place which had obsessed him. It appeared to be triangular in shape, with the apex at the gateway of the pass, and the broad end some forty or fifty miles across a still greater distance from where he made his estimates. Toward the open range the timber failed, and there strings and patches of buffalo led off from the main black herd. He chose this upper end as his own field, realizing that some day shrewd pioneers would stop to locate on that fertile soil. From this height the scene was beautiful in the extreme, a vast silvery park dotted by trees, basking in the sunrise. Only the dark and ragged break in the western bluff gave any inkling of the rough country in that direction.

  Latch made it a point presently to join Satana.

  “Chief, I want trade for land,” he said, turning to sweep a hand toward the field.

  “Uggh. What give?” replied the cunning Kiowa.

  “Much. You be friend and keep off Cheyennes, Arapahoes, Apaches, Comanches.”

  “Good. Satana kill heap red man. How much trade?”

  “What you want?” Latch’s deal with the savage called for a surrender of all oxen and horses captured in a raid on a caravan. This had appeared to be eminently satisfactory to the Kiowa.

  “Heap flour, beans, coffee, tobac,” began Satana.

  “Yes.”

  “Wagons.”

  “No. All wagons are to be run over the cliffs and destroyed.”

  “Guns, powder, ball.”

  “Yes. Equal share … same you … same me.”

  “Uggh! Good! … Firewater?”

  “Plenty for Satana. Little for Indian braves. Bad medicine. Make Kiowas crazy.”

  “Satana trade. Him promise keep.”

  Latch gripped the lean sinewy hand extended him, and felt that Satana, treacherous savage and deadly foe of white men, would deal with him as he was dealt by. A sense of final committal fell upon Latch. He had chosen his hiding-place, his burrow in the mountains, there to lie concealed until this or that raid had passed into the history of the frontier, forgotten in a few weeks as the unending accidents and disasters befell the travelers to the West. He had traded for his ranch land, where slowly he would develop the resources, build and fence and irrigate, so that when the war ended he could make a home. Home! He railed at his unreasonable dreams. Long before this war was over he would stop a freighter’s bullet or be hanged to a cottonwood tree. His trading, his planning, his labor, whatever these might be, would be but vain dreams. Still he persisted in them. There seemed to be an unknown self inside him, a defiant unquenchable self, some man who had a secret and terrific passion. He felt it stirring, boiling, swelling, like the change of a volcano from inertia to awakening for the eruption.

  The Kiowas knew the country. They kept on straight as a crow flew, over ridge and across hollows, up and down the barrens, higher and higher across the uplands, ringed by a close horizon. An occasional wolf, lean and old, follower of the pack, watched them from some eminence. Hawks sailed over the swales where scant brush might harbor gophers and rabbits. Latch never tired of the gray reaches, the lonely monotonous eternal gray of the high range. He recognized here something similar to what he had in his mind. And again he was confronted with the thought that unless he became an ordinary ruffian, bent on robbery, gambling, and carousal, he must expect all these strange and illusive things to magnify. Why should he concern himself with what he was then, what he would become tomorrow? The fact was that despite his bitter mocking resignation his dreams prevailed. And he concluded that this was better than dwelling only upon lust for blood and gold. At least he would prolong the period before his inevitable degradation.

  The long line of Indian horsemen lengthened out until it covered miles. What travelers they were! Their wild ponies kept on tirelessly. Latch’s outfit slowly fell behind. The heavier-weighted horses slowed up toward midday. Leighton had succeeded Keetch as leader of the white contingent. He rode at some distance ahead, shifting in his saddle from time to time, absorbed in his thoughts. In fact, all the men rode apart from one an other. Cornwall, however, did not get far in advance of Latch.

  Thus they rode on during the afternoon, hour by hour, across the ridges and hollows of the uplands, where the miles ahead appeared like those left behind. Not a track or a trail did Latch’s active eye espy. Buffalo did not frequent these barren foothills. Latch had a view now and then of the distant Rockies, rising purple-peaked above the gray land. At sunset the file of Indians appeared to deviate from their straight course north, and turn somewhat to the west. Latch then made note that they had come out on the verge of a promontory.

  Leighton and Keetch waited for their followers to come up. Latch was the last to join the group, all of whom were facing intently what lay before and below them. He gathered from their rigidity and absorption that he was to expect some unusually striking scene. Keetch was pointing and speaking.

  Presently Latch rode out on the brim of the plateau. His anticipation was vastly overwhelmed. The Great Plains lay beneath him, far below, gray and green, dotted and barren, merging in a dim haze.

  “Wal, boss, hyar you are,” said Keetch, coming to Latch’s side. “Sort of staggerin’, huh? …You see thet meanderin’ line? Thet’s the Dry Trail. I wouldn’t say it was a line of skulls an’ bleached bones. But you’d see some if you rode it…. I’m not shore, but I think thet ribbon far out there is the Cimarron. Our wagon train ought to be past the river. The Cimarron Crossin’ is where the Dry Trail begins. As I told you, it cuts off near three hundred miles. But it’s bad goin’. Some grass. Little water, an’ you gotta know how to find thet. I remember some of the camps. Sand Creek’s the first. Willow Bar, Round Mount, Point of Rocks, an’ so on, only thet’s not their order. We ought to be able to see Point of Rocks from hyar. But I can’t locate it.”
/>
  “I have a field-glass in my pack.”

  “Wal, we can use thet tomorrer.”

  “Are the Kiowas going down to the trail?”

  “Reckon only to a waterhole. We’ll camp there an’ wait until the scouts locate the train. From what I gathered, Hawk Eye reckons he’ll smoke signal us day after tomorrer sometime. Thet’ll mean the wagon train will be comin’ along the trail, an’ be within strikin’ distance in their camp thet night.”

  “Well, let’s follow on down. I’m tired,” rejoined Latch.

  Camp that night was something to nauseate Latch. But for his canteen with water from Spider Web Creek he would have gone thirsty to bed. His men grumbled for rum. The Kiowas burned dim fires of buffalo chips and danced around them, working themselves into a warlike mood. It seemed that their strange low staccato yells pierced Latch’s slumber.

  All next day he lounged in camp, in what scant shade he could find here and there. The Kiowas rode out to a man, a few of them up the slope of the hills, and most of them out on the plains to hunt. Leighton’s crowd gambled with their share of the expected raid, using pebbles as counters, and most of the day they cursed, laughed, brooded the hours away. Some of Latch’s men slept. Cornwall haunted the gamblers, a watching, indifferent, incomprehensible youth. Latch marked him for something singular. Often he approached Latch, but seldom spoke.

  “Colonel, that outfit is gambling away the contents of your wagon train,” he said once.

  “They’re ambitious—and trusting. Some of them may be dead.”

  “Queer bunch. I imagine we’re all queer, though. I know I am, because I like this life. But not for that sort of thing.”

  “What for, Lester?” queried Latch, curiously.

  “I don’t know, unless it’s the spell.”

  “Of blood and death just round the corner. I think I understand. It’s got me, too. But it’s not a wild joy, a wild freedom from all restraint. It’s bitter defiance…. What do you make of Leighton’s cronies?”

  “That Texas gunman fascinated me,” replied Cornwall. “He’s the only one of the bunch I’d trust. He doesn’t talk much. When Leighton taunted him about Lone Wolf, this other gun-thrower from Texas, why he didn’t like it a bit. I guessed Leighton wanted Texas to pick a fight with Lone Wolf, just to see which would kill the other quickest. … Waldron is a gloomy man, haunted by a bad conscience, but excited about the prospects of gold. Mandrove may have been a preacher, but he’s pretty low down now. He too wants the raid on the wagon train to gain him money. I suspect not to gamble with, but to escape with. Creik, the damned nigger, wants some slaves to beat. Sprall itches for fight. He gives me the creeps. I’ll probably shoot him presently. And Leighton—what do you think he wants most?”

  “God only knows. Perhaps to be chief of this band.”

  “No. He’s just antagonistic to you. He wouldn’t have the responsibility. I’m sure he has no great desire for power. Leighton is the kind who live for women.”

  “What?” demanded Latch, surprised out of his somberness.

  “I’ve studied Leighton, watched him, listened to him. … If he’s a relative of yours you ought to know something about him.”

  “Very little. We’re only distantly related—third cousins, I think. … I believe I did hear something about love affairs—years ago. I forget…. Well, it’s nothing to me what he was or is.”

  The day passed and the night. Latch suffered under the strain. He arose feeling like a chained tiger. Cornwall, always active, eager, curious, was the first to report that Satana’s scouts were smoke-signaling from far-separated points. They had sighted the caravan. It was a moment of tremendous import. Latch did not realize until then that he had still to make a choice, a decision. Should he go on with the deal with Satana or abandon it to flee across the plains, anywhere to escape? In cold fury he again met the issue.

  That encampment became possessed of devils. Satana sent out riders, evidently to get reports from the scouts. He would not allow the white men, even Latch, to climb the hill. He permitted no cooking fires. Dozens of circles of savages were dancing their war-dance. Latch’s men eagerly approached him for liquor, and being refused kept up the importunity, growing sullen and insistent. They had eyes like wolves, except Cornwall’s, which resembled blue ice. Latch himself had to fight a need of stimulant. With Keetch he planned an attack on the caravan, drawing maps on the ground, figuring every detail. Satana was a sharp observer of this practice, sometimes approving with an “Uggh!” and more often shaking his head.

  “Boss, thet old bird has got a haid on him, an’ don’t you overlook it. What he’s drivin’ at is thet we can’t plan the attack till we see where the wagon train camps. Unless it’s out in the open. Which, of course, any old freighter or experienced scout would insist on.”

  “Which would be most favorable to us?” demanded Latch.

  “I’d prefer a brushy place or willow swale for them to camp,” replied the old frontiersman, thoughtfully. “The redskins, you know, can’t be held back, specially if they have a little rum—an’ it takes damn little to infuriate an Injun. Let’s put the brunt of the attack up to the Kiowas an’ leave us men to keep back an’ do the sharpshootin’ from cover. In case the attack is out in the open, some of us are goin’ to git plugged. We’ve got to put in our lick, too.”

  “I appreciate that…. Well, tell Satana as soon as we locate the wagon-train camp we’ll plan the attack. And he must plan the hour.”

  “Uhuh,” replied Keetch, and conversed with the chief. Presently he turned again to Latch. “Satana wants to know when they drink the fire water.”

  “What’s your advice, Keetch?”

  “Hell! Parcel the rum out tonight. There’s twenty gallons, an’ a thimbleful of thet stuff will make a devil of any savage unused to likker.”

  The Kiowa scouts from the south rode in before sunset, reporting that the caravan was on the Dry Trail abreast of Satana’s camp, and not far away. Just after dark the riders from the north rode in to report that fifty-three wagons had gone into camp.

  “Tanner’s Swale,” asserted Keetch, after listening to the reports. “Thet’s a waterhole off the trail. Brushy with willow an’ hackberry. Pretty high banks on each side of the swale, an’ not far apart…. The damn tenderfeet! Wonder who’n hell is boss of thet wagon train. Reckon they think they can hide. My Gawd!… Wal, boss, it’s set to order.”

  Latch stood erect, taut as a wire, with a strange ringing in his ears. Cold sweat broke out all over him.

  “Keetch, ask Satana what his hour is for the attack,” said Latch, his voice sounding far away to him.

  Satana well understood. He made an imperious gesture.

  “Dark—before day come.”

  “It is settled. … Keetch, tell him we will follow his braves and fight with them…. Spare no man—woman—or—or—child!… They are not to set fire to wagons or shoot the stock.”

  The interpreter made that clear to the chief. “Good!” he grunted.

  “Now, men, we can’t be cowards and let the Indians do it all. But my orders are to keep back, under cover, and withhold your fire until you see a man to shoot at. …That’s all. Fetch the kegs of rum. Cornwall, get the small cups out of my saddle-bag.”

  “Aggh!”

  “Rush ’em out, Keetch!”

  “Boss, how much do we git out of thet twenty gallon?”

  Presently in the dim light of a buffalo-chip fire Latch was witness to a scene he would never forget. To each of his men, after portioning out the first to Satana, he allotted a full coffee-cup of rum. Then the liquor of one keg was poured out into buckets from which the small cupfuls were swiftly dispensed to the Indians. Silent, with eyes of dusky fire, the savages presented themselves for their portion. Many of the young braves choked as if indeed they had swallowed fire. Their very bodies leaped. From the drinking they went to the war-dance. But this night they made no sound, and the weird crouching step appeared all the more sinister.

  T
he second ten-gallon keg was tapped and again Latch allowed his men a drink. What heady stuff it was—how it burned his vitals—killed some struggle within—gave rein to the evil in him! It seemed a kind of ceremony, this drinking-bout, for it entailed silence and stilled mirth. His greedy men glared with fiery eyes at these slim savage striplings, erect, proud, fierce, ignorant that their courageous souls had been damned by the white traitors.

  CHAPTER

  3

  BOWDEN’S prairie-schooner had come in for endless attention all along the trail from Independence.

  Tullt and Co. had built it especially for John Bowden, and as the plainsman Pike Anderson averred, “shore was a kind of cross between a boat an’ a wagon.” It did not have square ends and straight sides. The former came almost to a point, like the blunt bow and stern of a boat, and the latter sheered up in a perceptible curve. It was large, heavy, strong, set upon wide wheels, and amazed the freighters by the ease with which it could be pulled.

  On the front end was painted against the green background in large red letters: TULLT and CO. NO. IA.

  At Council Grove this wagon came in for its first more than ordinary attention. Bowden appeared rather pleased, for the prairie-schooner had been constructed from his own plans. From one post to another the caravan traveled, always with Bowden’s big wagon at the fore, standing up above the grass like a ship at sea.

  Fort Dodge was an important stop on the long trail. Here Bowden expected the soldier escort he had been promised from Fort Leavenworth. But calls for more soldiers to the front in the Civil War made it impossible for Colonel Bradley to oblige him.

  “Better wait here until I can give you an escort,” said the officer, curtly. “Indians getting bolder since the war started. There have been some serious fights lately.”

  “How long would we have to lay over?” queried Bowden.

  “From three to six weeks.”

  “Impossible!” ejaculated Bowden, and turned away.

  To his niece Cynthia he confided: “I really feel safer out on the prairie than here in these camps. Such a motley crew of men! And they all spot my wagon, just as if their gimlet eyes could pierce that false bottom where I have secreted the gold. Your gold, Cynthia.”