by Zane Grey
“Lester, you exaggerate,” expostulated Latch, in concern. “You hate Leighton.”
“No. I see through him, that’s all. Better let me go kill him. That’ll end uncertainty.”
Latch wavered under the lashing tongue of this young wolf. An instinct of self-preservation warned him. Yet he would not listen. If Leighton had to be killed, Latch wanted to do it himself. That thought found heat in his veins. Moreover, Latch did not want to incite further the enmity of Leighton’s friends. It would not be politic in view of his scheme to buy his freedom from the band. Why not let Leighton take over the leadership? That would have been a capital idea but for the certainty of Leighton’s continuing to use Spider Web Canyon and Latch’s Field and Satana’s braves. Latch did not feel up to coping with the problem as yet.
“Cornwall, I’m against that for a number of reasons,” he replied, presently.
“All right. You’re my boss. But before I give in let me tell you this. Leighton knows you have a big sum of money in your belt. I could see it in his eyes when he was here. He’s always after money. He owes me and every one of the men. The camp women get what he doesn’t gamble and drink away.”
“That’s just why I have held out so much of his share of that September—deal,” replied Latch, warily lowering his voice to a whisper. “I’ve ten thousand here yet that belongs to Leighton, and the others. The rest I sent back with Keetch to be hidden. He had a pack saddle full—some of it gold.”
“Don’t tell Leighton, and if you give him more money, do it in dribbles… Now what aboot these two men he’s taken up?”
“Who and what are they?”
“Sam Blaise and Handy something or other. Blaise is a tow-headed lout that I wouldn’t trust an inch. Handy is one of the quiet Westerners better left alone.”
“Tell Leighton to wait until I’m able to get out. That’ll be soon. Ther. I’ll look these men over. I——”
“Sssh!” Cornwall peeped out between the flaps of the tent. Suddenly he jerked back, his eyes glinting like sunlight on ice. “Major Greer coming with a scout in buckskin. I think he’s Kit Carson…. Colonel, heah’s where you think quick!”
Latch, after an instant’s start, did think quickly. In fact he wasted no time on conjecture or surprise, but braced his nerve and called on all his faculties to meet an encounter that might be friendly; yet could not fail to be scrutinizing.
“Hello inside!” called an authoritative voice.
Cornwall sprang to spread wide the tent flaps.
“Come right in,” he said, cordially.
Latch had seen the doughty little officer, but Kit Carson was a stranger, except in name and fame. Many of the great frontiersmen had passed before Latch’s gaze. Carson was typical, but he had the clearest, most piercing eyes Latch had ever met. The major greeted him and shook hands.
“This is Kit Carson. You’ve probably been on the frontier long enough to hear of him. Ha! Ha!… Doc McPherson spoke to me about you. Thought I’d drop in. Carson happened along.”
“Mighty kind of you, gentlemen,” replied Latch, courteously. “I wish I could offer you each one of the easy-chairs on my veranda in Louisiana—also a mint julep. But I cannot, as you see. Pray take a store-box seat. Lester, pass the cigars.”
There was not the least constraint. The visitors took both seats and cigars, and faced Latch with interest.
“You’ve had a long siege, Mac says?” began Greer.
“Long! It seems years. I’ve been down since last September,” replied Latch. “Lester, light one for me. I’ll try a smoke myself.”
“Bad shot up, I reckon?” said Carson.
“I’ve just pulled through and that’s all,” replied Latch. “Perhaps you heard about Melville’s caravan being jumped by Comanches at Point of Rocks last September.”
“Was you in that? Wal, tell us about it,” returned Carson, leaning forward.
Latch had reason to make a clean, straight-forward, forceful narrative out of that fight, and he did it to the top of his bent.
“Nigger Horse, shore as the Lord made little apples!” declared Carson, vigorously. “Major, that Comanche chief has been on the raid lately. If this Civil War keeps on much longer the redskins will run us off the plains.”
“How’s the war going, gentlemen?” queried Latch.
“Southerner, aren’t you?” inquired Greer. “War’s going against the South.”
“Yes, but I did not gain the commission I sought.”
“Ahuh. Reckon the war ruined you, like it did so many planters?” asked Carson, casually, with those piercing eagle eyes upon Latch’s face.
“Ruined? Oh yes, though not financially,” rejoined Latch, with the ease and aloofness natural to a Southern aristocrat. “Carson, I presume you hold with the Yankees.”
“Yes. But I deplore this war. Not only has it laid waste the South, but told sorely on the West. An’ if it lasts much longer no man can foresee what will happen out here.”
“You mean a horde of scarecrows will be let loose upon this frontier?”
“Exactly. An’ I predict the bloodiest years of the westward movement. My friend Maxwell, a Southerner by the way, claims the worst will come after the war.”
“Maxwell of Maxwell Grant fame, out on the Vermigo?”
“Shore. There’s only one Maxwell. Have you seen the Maxwell Ranch?”
“Once. And have been fired ever since to go do likewise,” returned Latch, warmly. “He is a wonderful man. Indians of all tribes, freighters, scouts, trappers, outlaws, desperadoes—all welcome at his ranch. To come and stay! The whole West his friend.”
“Latch, you’ve got Maxwell right,” replied Kit Carson, favorably impressed. “If you have the means to ranch it on the Maxwell scale an’ the will to treat red men an’ white men the same you could do much toward peace on this frontier.”
‘You’d certainly help the soldiers’ cause,” added Greer, heartily.
“Gentlemen, I have the means and the will,” continued Latch, rising to his advantage. “What’s more, I have found the place. It lies north of here, east of the mountains and the Canadian River, a wonderful range, a valley beyond compare, grass, water, trees, game in abundance—a paradise.”
“East of the Canadian?” mused Carson, as if drawing a map in his mind. “That’s Kiowa country, Latch.”
“The only drawback,” admitted Latch, with just the right inflection of regret.
“Do you happen to know Satana?” asked the scout.
Latch met that penetrating glance and query with all the strength and cunning engendered by the realization that Cynthia’s happiness and his life were at stake.
“Wal, then how do you propose to propitiate Satana, not to mention that other devil, Satock?”
“I’m gathering a bunch of hard-riding, hard-shooting men with little regard for their status on the plains.”
“A good idea, if you can run an outfit of these hard nuts. Like as not they’ll kill you an’ take everything you’ve got.”
“I must take that chance, for some years, at least. Then I’ll placate the Kiowas with gifts. I’ll keep open house the same as Maxwell does.”
“Wal, it might work. You are a man of force. But take it slow. Don’t throw in many head of hosses an’ cattle at first. Feel your way…. Did you ever hear of Jim Blackstone?”
“Blackstone? That name ought to stick in mind. No, I can’t say I recall it,” replied Latch, lying smoothly.
“Blackstone an’ his gang holes somewhere up on the Purgatory River,” explained Carson. “He’s a man to steer clear of. Lately Blackstone has come under suspicion of holdin’ up stages on the trail.”
“Indeed? I shall look out for him. Thanks for the hunch. All the same, Carson, with Maxwell’s way in mind, I’ll keep open house for any and all comers.”
“Safe enough if you last,” concluded Carson, rising. “Wal, Latch, I’m glad to meet you an’ shall keep tab on you.”
“Do. And run up for a buffalo-hu
nt next fall,” responded Latch, heartily.
Major Greer also shook hands. “Hope you’ll be up and around soon. Drop in on me any time. If I can be of service to you, command me.”
Kit Carson halted on the way out. “Latch, here’s a hunch. If you are wal-heeled you can double an investment pronto. Furs are pourin’ down out of the hills in a regular rain. Never seen the like. More than a thousand trappers here! An’ you know I was a trapper once. It’s just been a bang-up winter for trappin’.”
“Thanks. I could readily buy a wagon-load of pelts. But how dispose of them?”
“Tullt will guarantee delivery by escort train.”
“Good. Will you buy a load for me? On commission, of course.”
“Shore, I’d be glad to.”
“Drop over tomorrow and I’ll have the money for you…. Speaking of money, I’d be willing to take wagon, team, and supplies from Tullt instead of cash.”
“That’s easy. But let me buy the pelts first,” laughed Carson, as he went out.
After the visitors had gone Latch and Cornwall gazed at each other a long silent moment.
“What do you make of that?” finally broke out Latch.
“Greer’s a thick-haided Yank!” replied Cornwall, with scorn. “But that Kit Carson is all the West calls him. Colonel, I liked him plenty. How his eyes bored into me! …My angle is Greer came in to look you over. But no man could have done more or better. Colonel, you’re a master at dissimulation. The Maxwell idea was a stroke. It hit Carson plumb center. And open house for every class on the frontier—that was another. But from this day you’re a—marked man.”
“By God—yes!” ejaculated Latch, choking over the utterance. “I liked Carson, too…greatest of all these great Westerners!…And I—Stephen Latch—at the other end—lowest, meanest, vilest of the West’s outlaws!”
CHAPTER
8
LATCH walked about the fort leaning on Cornwall’s arm. He felt in exuberant spirits. The warm spring sun, the greening grass and bursting buds on the hackberry bushes, the odor of wood smoke—all smote him keenly. Before long now he would be enjoying them in the seclusion of Spider Web Canyon. A certainty that he was starting soon helped to stay what had been almost insupportable impatience. And another thought had occurred to steady him. It was no sure thing that horses could stem the current of Spider Web Brook swollen from the melting snow on the mountains.
Tullt’s store was so crowded with Indians and trappers that Cornwall insisted on staying out. A new run of pelts from the hills had come in. Freight was piled higher than a man’s head all around the store. Two wagon trains had arrived that morning, one to unload supplies for the West, the other to pack furs for the East.
“Lester, if we nailed that train of beaver-skins, we’d never have to work again,” said Latch.
“Send Hawk Eye out with the word,” replied the young dare-devil.
“Boy, you’re drunk. There’ll be over a hundred wagons with an escort of dragoons…. Besides, I forgot. No more raids for me!”
The youth let loose his cold, tinkling, mocking laugh.
“Colonel, you will die with your boots on,” he declared.
“Kicking them at empty air, eh?… No, by Heaven! I wasn’t born to be hanged.”
Latch wearied and had to sit down to rest. His breathing was labored and great beads of perspiration stood out on his forehead. The one wound that had nearly been mortal, though fully healed, pained as if the lead bullet that had made it, still burned in his flesh. But Latch knew Cynthia’s hand or cheek on his sore breast, where the hole palpitated and throbbed, could allay all agony, as her love could give him peace.
He watched the throng. Cornwall left him on an errand. Indians, soldiers, freighters, trappers, and all the parasite types of the army camp passed him in review. He realized that he was watching the Western movement in its incipience. He had the vision to see what the future would bring to this frontier. Raw and hard and bloody it was now—a phase in the development of a great country. Somehow the scene of color, action, life, tugged at his heart and touched again his old desire to help the progress of empire. Also he had a divining or intuitive power to read in the mien, the step, the eye of a red man whether he was friendly or hostile. Some Indians were really brothers, but except in isolated cases, from people like Kit Carson or Maxwell, all the Indians received in return was trickery, intolerance, and blood. Latch had been long enough on the frontier now to know that if the Union won the Civil War, it would still have an Indian war to contend with. No army of soldiers would ever sweep the plains free of these proud fierce savage devils. Latch realized that his association with Satana had given him surprising sympathy and regard for the Indian. An afterthought of bitter realization that he was an outlaw—that Greer had cause to hang him—ended his revery.
Cornwall returned and Latch said he felt up to a walk outside of the fort. There were a few rude clapboard structures along the dusty street, and the one farthest appeared to rival Tullt’s in bustle and noise. It was a store and saloon combined.
Among the Indians lounging outside, Latch recognized his scout Hawk Eye and another Kiowa brave. They might never have seen Latch before. Their business at the fort was to guide him back to Spider Web Canyon. Latch went on into the saloon with Cornwall. A huge barn-like structure it was, unfloored and unfinished, with the crudest of tables and benches, and a long stand for a bar. Smoke, noise, and the odor of tobacco and rum filled the place.
“Find me—a seat,” panted Latch. “Soon as I’ve rested—we’ll get out of this hell-hole.”
But he remained an hour, which was far longer than he would have chosen. Black Hand and Augustine approached him, the former drunk and ugly. He bellowed out: “Howdy boss! Gimme stake!”
When he persisted, Cornwall hit him over the head with the butt-end of a gun, which laid the ruffian out. No one paid any special attention. But Augustine showed his yellow teeth like a snarling wolf.
Next Leighton got up from a table where evidently he had been gambling, and motioning his comrades to stay back he stalked across the room to greet Latch. The last two times Latch had seen his Southern ally had been in the uncertain light of the army tent. Leighton had changed markedly during the five months that Latch had been ill. Had it been only a year and a half since Latch’s shot had marred the once handsome features? The left side of Leighton’s face bore a crooked, livid, triangular-shaped scar, giving him a deformed and hideous appearance. He had grown heavy in body, untidy of person, and coarse. Nevertheless, he had a pondering look, as if possessed by a hidden thought.
“Latch, my hunch is to rustle away from Fort Union at once,” he said, without any greeting. He had never called Latch “chief” or “boss” again.
“What’s your huriy?” asked Latch.
“These scouts are too interested in us.”
“What scouts?”
“All of them. Not Carson, particularly, though you can’t figure him. But Curtis, and particularly Beaver Adams.”
“Well, the company you keep is responsible for that.”
“You mean Blaise and Handy,” returned Leighton, bluntly.
“I do.”
“They are no different from a dozen other doubtful hangers-on here. I’ve been gambling with them all…. Latch, I think you are the man the scouts are interested in.”
“What gave you that idea?” queried Latch, quickly, ever alert and suspicious.
“Handy. That fellow is a fox. He’s been knocking about these forts for years. I don’t know what he had seen or heard. But he just tipped me off.”
“Call him over here.”
Latch had to admit to himself that the stranger, Handy, gave an impression of sterling qualities. He had a fearless, cool, aloof air, a straight hard glance, and a voice that matched both. After a few casual questions Latch came right out: “What’s your business on the border?”
“Aw, I’m a gentleman of leisure,” replied Handy, with a grin.
“Can
you ride?”
“Shore. On a wagon-seat. I began freightin’ out of Independence in ’fifty-five.”
“Any good with a rope?”
“Wal, I reckon I’ll stretch one some day.”
“I mean can you throw a lasso?”
“Hell, no.”
“You wouldn’t make much of a cowboy?”
“Not for work. But I’m handy with a gun.”
“That where you get your handle, eh?”
“Wal, it wasn’t no pick of mine.”
“All right, Handy. I like your looks and your talk. What do you make of me?”
“I had you figgered before Leighton told me.”
The old hot passion, dead or slumbering for months, awoke in Latch’s veins again. Straightway he restrained it and became thoughtful—compared with this man Latch knew himself to be a novice on the plains. He wondered if Kit Carson and his associates had gauged him as keenly as had this outlaw. Probably they had not. He knew his power of dissimulation and felt convinced that the famous scout at least had not been hostile toward him. Carson, however, had not approached him in regard to the deal in beaver pelts.
Latch asked to meet Blaise, whom he found to be like many other frontier outcasts, dull, negative, indifferent, living from hand to mouth, day by day.
“Any good around a ranch?” inquired Latch.
“Shore am. Was brought up with hosses an’ cows. I’m a farmer. Good at graftin’ fruit trees. Fair carpenter, blacksmith, an’ a good cook. Ain’t so poor a doctor an’—”
“Say, you’re a whole outfit in yourself,” interrupted Latch, dryly. “Can you shoot?”
“Fair to middlin’ at deer an’ buffalo. But I’ve no nerve for shootin’ men.”