by Zane Grey
“Yes, and unhurt, to judge by the way she kicked.”
“Wal, by Gawd!” burst out Keetch. “I reckoned Leighton acted kinda queer.”
“Where’d he get—her?” queried Latch, conscious of a coalescing fury within.
“Tanner’s Swale, of course. She must have been one the Kiowas missed…. I had a good look at her. I had slipped up behind the cabin and I peeped out. That was the first time, before you rode by. Sprall was with Leighton then. He had unhitched the team——”
“Sprall!”
“Yes. He rode all day with Leighton. Well, I saw Leighton drag the girl out of the wagon. He had a hand over her mouth. Her dress was ripped off her shoulders. She had bright long hair which hung down. Colonel, she is a very beautiful girl.”
Like a lion at bay, Latch eyed the seven of his band who could stand on their feet and who had grouped behind Keetch. The man Latch sought was not present. On the moment, however, he emerged from between two wagons and came forward. He had been running. His dark wizened face and beady eyes showed concern. But he meant to brazen it out.
“Sprall!” whipped out Latch.
“Yes, boss. I’m hyar…. I been lookin’ after Leighton’s horses.”
“Did you ride with Leighton all day?”
“I did. Shore. I had to ride somewhere on a wagon, since I couldn’t set hossback.”
“You knew Leighton had a girl hidden in his wagon,” asserted the leader, in a voice like steel striking flint.
Sprall had not prepared himself for such revelation. He was staggered. His quick furtive gaze swerved from Latch to Keetch, to the others behind him, and then found Cornwall. Then he fairly bristled. That sudden rage betrayed him. His control and resourcefulness might have saved him with a lesser man than Latch.
“Boss, all day I been tryin’ to show Leighton that he was crazy in the haid,” said Sprall, in hoarse haste. “But the man is mad about wimmen. I couldn’t get him to knock this gurl on the haid. He raved aboot how purty she is. He——”
“How’d he come to have her in that wagon?”
“Jest aboot the end of the fight he saved the gurl from bein’ scalped by an Injun. Shot him daid! …It happened in the door of that big Tullt wagon. I was the onlucky fellar to see it. The gurl had lost her senses. But Leighton held her face up in the moonlight. An’ damn me if he didn’t yelp wors’n a Kiowa…. He pushed her back in the wagon, an’ gittin’ in he tied her up. An’ he swore he’d kill me if I gave him away.”
“Sprall, I’ll kill you for not giving Leighton away,” yelled Latch, and swift as a flash he shot the man through the heart. Sprall fell without a sound, but the toes of his boots dug into the ground for a moment. Latch gazed terribly down upon the body, and then at the members of his band.
“That goes for every man who breaks my rule,” he said, in cold deadly passion.
“Boss—I, fer one, stand by you,” replied Keetch, in a hard tone. But he was the only member of the band to speak. Latch especially eyed Texas, the gunman, the most dangerous of Leighton’s supporters. This individual, however, concealed his feelings, if he had any, and preserved his habitual composure. Whereupon Latch sheathed his gun and stalked out of the circle.
When he got somewhat beyond the wagons he looked back. Some of the men were following, and he recognized Keetch and Cornwall in the lead.
It was some distance to the trees where Leighton had left his wagon, too far, perhaps, if the man were absorbed, for him to hear the report of a gun. At any rate, Leighton did not appear around either the wagon or the cabin.
Latch quickened his pace, but took care to keep trees and shrubs between him and the spot he was rapidly nearing. His passion locked on one issue. Yet thoughts whirled through his mind. Chance had offered a magnificent opportunity for him to demonstrate how he meant to rule this band and at the same time to get rid of Leighton. A girl! Long bright hair! A very beautiful girl!…What in God’s name would he do with her? Here his consciousness encountered a wall. There was no answer.
Gaining the big cottonwood, he swerved from behind that to place the wagon between him and the cabin. He ascertained then that Keetch and the others were following at a respectful distance. That seemed well. It augured fear of him and curiosity about Leighton and his prisoner rather than any will to interfere.
Latch strode around the wagon to face the dark open door of the dilapidated cabin. Here he drew his gun, to be ready if Leighton stepped out. Then his ears rang at the voice of a woman. Latch leaped to the side of the door.
“Oh, my God, have pity on me!”
Strangely that voice tore at Latch’s heart-strings. But he thought only of its low, broken, anguished utterance. Then he took a single step to the front door.
Last rays of the sun shone into the cabin. In its light Leighton stood revealed clasping a woman in his arms. A white arm hung limp. Her clothing hung in torn shreds. Her long golden hair fell in a disheveled mass. And the man had his ugly mouth glued to hers.
Latch leveled the gun.
“Damn you, Leighton! Let go that woman!”
So obsessed appeared the man that, though the command seemed to pierce his consciousness, he answered to the violent interruption but slowly. When he broke away from her lips to see Latch, his expression of heat and passion changed to one of intolerant anger. But he had no time to speak. Latch fired point-blank. The heavy bullet whirled Leighton around so that he fell toward the door. The girl collapsed against the wall.
Latch reached her in time to save her from falling. With the hand that still held the gun he sought to draw up her dress to hide her nudity.
Still his vigilance did not relax. Hearing steps and hoarse whispers, he wheeled to see Keetch and Cornwall peering through the door, with others trying to see over their shoulders. Leighton lay on his back, his face half blown away, a bloody spectacle.
“Keetch, drag him out,” ordered Latch, sternly. “Lester, guard the door. Keep them back.”
“Wal, boss, I reckon our band is some decimated,” spoke up Keetch, cheerfully, as he stepped over the log portal to lay powerful hold of Leighton. As he dragged him out Cornwall backed against the door-post, a gun in each hand.
“About close enough, gentlemen,” he drawled, and a child might have detected death in his voice.
Latch sheathed his gun, but even then he could not rearrange the girl’s torn clothing to cover her. He thought she had lost consciousness, but to his amazement she stirred—she rose from her knees, weakly swaying against the wall.
“Lady, I thought you’d fainted,” spoke up Latch.
“Another—white man!” she whispered, scarcely audibly. “Oh—you shot—that beast—-only to take me—yourself!”
“No. I’m not so bad as that,” replied Latch, bitterly, as he gently released his hold.
A gasp broke from her and she sagged a little against the wall.
“You—don’t mean—to harm me—then murder me—as I heard that man——”
“I killed Leighton for breaking my rule,” said Latch.
“Then you—saved me?” she cried.
The broken query brought Latch violently up against the monstrous situation. By his own decree every member of that wagon train had to die. He had shed blood of his own band for this girl, but if he kept his word he must mete out murder to her, also. All at once Latch found himself really seeing her as she leaned face to the wall. The luxuriant hair had a wave, a sheen that acted as a blade driven into his side. Did he know that hair? She was young. The noble contour of her shoulders and neck, and of her white cheek, appeared to confirm Cornwall’s estimate of her beauty. Horror began to edge into his realization.
“Yes, it seems I have—saved you for the present,” he returned, ponderingly.
A trembling appeared to run over her, ending in a sudden stiffening. She began to turn as if in a giant grip. And when partly around, she moved in a flash, suddenly to disclose her face. White as chalk it was, with strained dark eyes widening—mouth gaping
back of quivering fingers.
“Christ, am I mad? … Who are you?” cried Latch, in a frenzy.
“Stephen!… You—you!… Oh, that you should be the one to save me!”
She sank to her knees, clasping him with nerveless hands.
“No!… It can’t be! Not you! That would be too—too horrible!”
“Yes, it is I—Cynthia,” she whispered.
Latch all but collapsed. He shook like a man palsied. His fingers plucked at her, to lift her, but could not take hold. And such a searing agony of spirit claimed him that he might have been in the throes of conscious aggravated torture.
“I’ve prayed for merciful death,” she whispered. “My faith in God—almost failed…. But that you—you should drop from heaven—Oh, God, forgive me!… Oh, Stephen, forgive me!”
“Hush!… Don’t kneel—to me!… Cynthia, you don’t realize how awful——”
“It was awful!… But I’m saved. By you! I meet you here in this wilderness of cutthroats. Who else could have saved me? I—l would come on this mad journey. Something lured me.”
“Get up, please,” he begged, huskily. “Cynthia——”
“No, I belong here at your feet.”
“Good God, woman, you’re out of your mind!” He laid hold of her with shaking hands, but she resisted his efforts to draw her up. She held him tight, lifting a supplicating face from which a glow of gratitude and love had erased the havoc.
“Don’t try to stop me. I will tell you,” she went on, in passionate aberration. “I loved you…. I loved you even when I deserted you.”
Latch forgot where he was, what this cabin signified, forgot his lieutenant at the door, and the hounds of his band with the dead Leighton outside.
Her eloquent eyes, her clasping arms, her incredible confession transformed him as if by a miracle. He was back in the hour when he had expected his dream to come true. Lifting her swiftly, he held her to his breast.
“Cynthia, you loved me then?… Loved me when you cast me off? … Let your brother——”
“Yes, yes! Oh, if I had only known!” she faltered. “But Howard found out your—your affair with—that woman—they told me. They proved it—and, oh, it hurt so hideously. I could have killed you….”
“Cynthia, did they tell you that I never saw that woman again—after I met you?” he asked, gravely.
“No, they didn’t. Is that true?”
“Absolutely!”
“But we heard—it was in the papers—your disgrace—your dismissal from the army—your duel—the death of Thorpe.”
“Yes, my ruin was well advertised. And here I am. … But, Cynthia, I worshiped you. From the moment I met you I was a changed man. …I should have told you of my wildness at college and all about that—that affair. Perhaps I might have done so later. But then I didn’t have the courage. You, with your uplifted head, your proud eyes! I couldn’t! I gambled on every chance. Always I was a gambler. And I lost.”
“Then Howard lied,” she burst out.
“Lied? My God, yes! He owed me thousands. Gambling debts. So he hatched that plan to ruin me. He and Thorpe hated me. He wanted Thorpe to marry you. It was all so despicable.”
“Yes. Of me, as well as of them! But, oh, Stephen, I was jealous. Jealous of that woman! There is nothing so degrading as jealousy. It warped my judgment. It made me believe my love had turned to hate…. But it hadn’t. I was just sick—furious….”
“Ah, to learn all this too late!” cried Latch, remembering.
“Darling, it is never too late. Don’t turn from me now. I was weak, yes. I failed you. I had to suffer to find myself. And even after I found out what you did to Howard and that you shot Thorpe, I would have eloped with you, if you had come for me. But you did not.”
Latch bowed his head over her, holding her close. “Too late,” he said again, in a scarcely audible whisper.
“It is not too late—unless you do not want me, love me….” There was fear in the girl’s voice.
Latch released her. He had lived one hour too long. If Leighton had only faced him then, there would have been a reversal of the tragedy.
“Stand back!” The raucous command tore Latch from the agony of the moment. He turned to see Cornwall backed against the door-post, his two guns extended, his youthful face as cold and gleaming as if cut in ice.
“Cornwall, you ain’t meanin’ you’d fire on us jest for insistin’ on seein’ the boss?”
That was Keetch’s voice, querulous and rough, indicating that even he had raw nerves on edge.
“Come one more step and see,” taunted the youth.
“But, boy, we’ll kill you,” he remonstrated. “You’d be daid now but fer me. Black Hand, hyar—he’s had a bead on you from behind.”
“Bah! you’re a pack of lousy curs! Shoot and be damned!”
“Lester, what do they want?” called Latch. Nothing could be gained by Cornwall’s precipitating a fight; at least not until the demands of the band were heard.
“Colonel, I don’t know, and I care less.”
“Well, wait.” Then Latch raised his voice. “Keetch, what do you want?”
“Latch, personal, I don’t want anythin’ but a little peace,” boomed the old outlaw. “But your shootin’ Sprall an’ Leighton has upset the outfit. Who next will you shoot?”
“Any man who opposes me…. Is Leighton dead?”
“No. But he’s aboot as good as daid. An’ Black Hand an’ Augustine hev gone over to Leighton’s side.”
“How about Lone Wolf?”
“Wal, he’ll stick. But we don’t want to fight. An’ they hev demands.”
“All right, I’ll listen. Give me five more minutes.”
When Latch turned again to face Cynthia, he found her back to the wall. The softness of love had left her face, and it was now distorted and ashen. To meet her eyes took all the manhood left in him.
“Cynthia, you’ve heard. I am the leader of Latch’s Band,” he said, with suppressed passion.
CHAPTER
6
SHE echoed his words with dry lips.
“Yes,” went on Latch, hurriedly. “After killing Thorpe I fled. Out there on the border I organized a band of desperadoes. At first we were guerrillas, fighting independently against the North. But soon we drifted into robbery. From that to crime… and lastly to massacre.”
“Oh, my God!… My uncle’s wagon train!” exclaimed Cynthia, in horror. “But those murderers were Indians… I—I saw them run and leap… saw them brandish tomahawks and scalps!”
“Yes, Indians. My Indians! I was the leader, the instigator of that massacre.”
‘You!”
“Yes, I… Stephen Latch, son of an old Southern family—college graduate—ruined planter—once a lover of Cynthia Bowden…. Now, an associate of outlaws and criminals. A partner of Satana, bloodiest war chieftain of the Indian tribes. In a word—leader of Latch’s Band…. To this you have brought me!”
“I!”
“Surely. Your faithlessness. Your scorn,” he replied, bitterly. “I might never have amounted to much, I would have been only another Southerner of my class. But, brutal as it is to say, you brought out the evil in me.”
“Better that the savage had killed me!” she whispered.
“Better indeed!…The law of my band was to kill every soul. To leave no trace!…And the horror of this situation is that I fear I cannot save your life.”
“I don’t want to live—now,” she said, brokenly. “But my—my—… You will not let these men take me—to—to——
“They will have to kill me first, Cynthia.”
“But, Stephen, if death is the edict of your band—you kill me…. The instant you see—it’s hopeless …I will welcome death at your hands. I have brought you to this degradation; I ought to die by your hand…. Swear you will save me that way—if——”
“Kill you?…Cynthia—how could I?…You don’t know what you are asking.”
“But if it is th
e only way,” she appealed, again at his breast. “Stephen, you say you love me still. Then you cannot see these men defile me…
“No!” he burst out, lifting his head. “I could not… I promise. Cynthia! Oh, God—that we should come to this!… I’ll kill you instantly—the moment I see it is hopeless to save you.”
“Thank you,” she whispered. “Oh, Stephen, my heart was broken. I am ready to die, at last…. To have met you once more—to find what I have done to you—to confess my faithlessness, my remorse, and the love nothing could change—oh, that makes it easy.”
For a moment he held her close, then looking to his guns he sheathed them and faced the door.
“Lester, bring them in,” he called.
The youth beckoned carelessly with his guns, then stepped across the log threshold into the cabin. First to enter behind him was the lean sardonic gunman, Lone Wolf. The others followed quickly, a lame, bloody, ferocious band of men, inquisitive and baleful.
Lone Wolf turned significantly to back across the room and stand beside Latch. Cornwall came sidewise, still with his guns in hands.
“Keetch, are you with me or against me?” demanded Latch.
“Boss, I stand between. I wouldn’t raise a hand ag’-in’ you or any of my pards. Thet’s me.”
“Very well. That satisfies me. So it’s Cornwall an’ Lone Wolf with me against the five of them. Who’s going to do the talking?”
“Wal, I’ve been elected to that,” replied Keetch.
“Get back from the door, so I can see you all,” demanded Latch, with a gesture. Keetch lined them up in a slant across the opposite corner so that the light fell fairly upon them. Latch’s mind had swiftly evolved a plan and set rigidly upon it. He sensed a chance of mediation. But if it did not succeed he meant to wheel and kill Cynthia before he let loose on the men. He could hide his intent. He could fool them, even the Texas gunman, until his vigilant passion-stormed mind divined the issue.
“Now, Keetch, what do these men want?” demanded the leader.
“Wal, boss, they talked it over an’ took a vote.”
“On what?”
“They reckoned you’re no different from Leighton. You wanted the girl, and so you took your law as excoose to kill your men. None of us doubts but thet you’ll put her oot of the way when it suits you. But they—an’ I mean this majority hyar—figger thet’s as fair for them as for you. They want the gurl—to share her same as the money an’ rum an’ all thet we got there in them wagons.”