The Lost Wagon Train

by Zane Grey

  “Heah!” yelled Corny at the top of his lungs.

  The robbers wheeled with wide sweep of guns. Corny’s two shots broke that action. One of the highwaymen discharged his weapon as he fell. The other merely sank like an empty sack released.

  “Whoa! Whoa!” bawled the stage-driver to the plunging horses. They lunged to drag the coach beyond where the robbers lay.

  As Corny ran along side he caught a glimpse of three white-faced girls and a negro woman whose countenance appeared extremely black by comparison. One of the lead horses on the left side still plunged in fright. Corny reached an iron arm to drag him down. In a moment more the horses were tractable.

  “Driver, was you goin’ to water heah?” queried Corny.

  “You—you ain’t with them hombres?” blurted out the driver, evidently gripped by both anger and fright. The negro sitting beside him showed only the latter.

  “Nope, I’m all alone,” replied Corny, and sheathed his gun.

  “—— —— —— ——their lousy hides!” cursed the driver. “You bored ’em, cowboy. You shore bored ’em. … Yes, I was intendin’ to water hyar…. S’pose you lead thet haid team for me.”

  Corny took hold of a bit strap in each hand, and backed into the shade, drawing the horses with him. Here the driver leaped down.

  “Put her thar, cowboy,” he burst out, heartily, extending an eager hand. “What might yore name be?”

  “Wal, it might be Jeff Davis, only it ain’t,” replied Corny.

  “Ahuh. Mine is Bill Simpson, driver for Latch of Latch’s Field.”

  “Howdy. I reckon you’re a powerful careless driver to work for Mr. Latch, if all I heah of him is true.”

  “Careless? My Gawd yes! Wuss than careless. But it’s Miss Estie’s fault, cowboy, an’ you can believe me,” declared Simpson, beginning to unhitch. “Pile off, Moze, an’ help hyar. … You see, stranger, it was this way. I’m drivin’ Latch’s daughter an’ two of her friends from New Orleans to Latch’s Field. We’d never been alone a mite of the way till this mawnin’. We was to start out with Bridgemen’s wagon train. But the girls couldn’t be got up, an’ when they did Miss Estie said we’d hurry on an’ catch up with Bridgeman. That is what I was doin’ when them hombres busted out of the brush. I seen them bangin’ around this mornin’. An’ if that thick-set, pock-marked fellar hasn’t been at Latch’s Field I’m no good at rememberin’.”

  “Wal, lucky I happened to be restin’ in the shade,” said Corny.

  “Lucky for us. An’, say, cowboy, lucky for you if you ever drop into Latch’s Field…. Soon as I water the horses we’ll go back an’ have a look at them hombres. …Yes, Miss Estie, we’re all right now, thanks to this cowboy.”

  “Please wet my scarf. Marce fainted,” replied the same musical voice that had called Simpson.

  Corny leaped to take the scarf from the gloved hand extending from the window of the coach. He ran into the brook, and saturating the scarf he hurried back with it to the stage-coach. The same small hand received it, only ungloved this time. Its owner bent over a pale still face lying on the lap of the negress. The third girl sat back limp as a rag. The one Corny took for Miss Latch had red-gold hair waving from under a bonnet that appeared awry. He could not see her face.

  “Dar, she’s sho comin’ to, Mis’ Estie,” spoke up the negress. “I was scared mos’ to faintin’ myself…. Dar, set up, Mis’ Marcella.”

  “Marce, you’re all right. You fainted,” said Miss Latch.

  “I did? How silly!… Oh, you’ve drowned me…. What happened to those—dreadful men?”

  Simpson approached to take a peep in. “Aw, Miss Marce, I’m shore sorry you had a scare. But all along you’ve wanted somethin’ to happen. It did. An’ it could have been wuss… Meet our cowboy friend, hyar—who says his name might be Jeff Davis, only it ain’t.”

  The young ladies appeared on the moment too perturbed to be aware of strangers or introductions. Whereupon Simpson drew Corny out of the shade to the road, and thence on to where the robbers lay.

  “Excuse me, Simpson. You search them hombres an’ identify them, if you can, while I let their horses go,” said Corny.

  Corny had vastly more consideration for the horses than for the men. Freeing them of bridles and saddles, he left them free to roll. Then he went across the brook to fetch his own horse, and took his time about the task. Upon returning, Corny found Simpson hitching up the teams.

  “Wal, I’ll ride along behind you ’til we catch up with the wagon train,” announced Corny.

  “Cowboy, I’ll feel in damn good company,” rejoined the driver.

  “Please come here, sir,” called a rather imperious youthful voice.

  Corny seemed forewarned of a stupendous event, but not forearmed. Owing to the tragedy of his brother’s life—wholly on account of a girl—Corny had never given in to his natural tendency. He feared girls, distrusted them, and his own vague stirrings. Removing his sombrero and with the bridle of the horse over his arm he approached the stage-coach. If he had ever seen a lovely face before, this pale sweet one, with its violet eyes and red lips, eclipsed the memory.

  “Sir, you saved us from being robbed, if not worse,” she said, gravely. “Robbery would have been bad enough. We are carrying home a considerable sum of money of my father’s. Stephen Latch of Latch’s Field. I am Estelle Latch. And these are my friends Miss Marcella Lee and Miss Elizabeth Proctor.”

  Corny bowed low. “I shore am glad to meet you-all,” he drawled, and let a smile relax his set face.

  “To whom are we indebted for this rescue?” spoke up Miss Lee, weakly. “I want to thank you—first for saving us, and secondly for the lesson I deserve. I’ve prayed for something wild to happen.”

  “Aw, lady, don’t thank me,” replied Corny, in his easy, careless way.

  “But we do thank you,” interposed Miss Latch, gravely. “And we want to know who you are.”

  “Wal, Miss Latch, I reckon it doesn’t matter much who I am,” replied Corny, and his eyes sought the distant range. “I’m only a no-good trail-driver that lost his job this mawnin’ an’ I happened to be restin’ heah.”

  “Are those—bandits dead?” queried Miss Latch, haltingly. But she appeared composed and as truly Western as Corny might have expected a daughter of Stephen Latch to be.

  “Wal, fact is I didn’t see,” drawled Corny. “Looks like they was takin’ a siesta.”

  “Mr. Trail-driver, you are pleased to be facetious. Which is certainly not what you were when you jumped out of that thicket.”

  “I reckon I did ’pearl sudden,” replied Corny. “Wal, the fact is, lady, I heahed one of them say your dad would pay handsome to get you back alive. So I wasn’t actin’ with much compunction.”

  “How awful!” exclaimed Miss Latch. “Girls, did you hear? Those ruffians meant not only robbery…. My father must hear of this, sir.”

  “Wal, I’ve no objection to your tellin’ him, lady. Only don’t rub it on thick; ’Cause there isn’t much credit due me for just bein’ heah.”

  “You are a very strange young man,” declared the girl, sweetly, and again the wonderful violet eyes took him in from head to foot and back again. “Don’t you know my dad would reward you—give you a job—make much of you—for this service to me and my friends?”

  “I reckon he would, lady. An’ that’s why I’ll not ride Latch’s Field way.”

  “You will not accept anything for what you have done for us?” she queried, in surprise.

  “Wal, nothin’ muchf drawled Corny, finding this interest sweet as nothirig had ever been. “Shore not money, lady. But if you ah’ your friends are daid set on rewardin’ me I’ll compromise for a kiss.”

  “Don’t be rude, sir,” hastily expostulated Miss Latch, blushing scarlet.

  “No offense, lady. I was only talkin’.”

  “Estie, I don’t think it’s rude,” interposed Miss Lee, spiritedly. “I will—if you and Elizabeth will.”

  M
iss Latch looked vexed and embarrassed, but young as she undoubtedly was, she had dignity and restraint which no romantic sentimentality could upset.

  “Marce, this young man is not in earnest,” she said, reprovingly. “Can’t you tell that he is teasing?”

  “Are you?” retorted Marcella, leaning out of the coach window.

  “I reckon I was, lady,” replied Corny. “Miss Latch is shore tellin’ you that it isn’t becomin’ of a stranger to spill blood an’ ask for kisses in almost the same breath.”

  “It’s most extraordinary, if nothing else,” declared Miss Latch. “But we are silly—excited…. Mr. Trail-driver, we must catch Bridgeman’s caravan for camp tonight. How far are we behind?”

  “Ten miles or so. You can catch up before sundown.”

  “Will you accompany us?”

  “Wal, I’ll ride along behind if you want me.”

  “Please do. We shall feel safer. If only you could ride ahead, too!… Please come to me while we are in camp. I—I would like to speak with you again.”

  “Wal, it’s a turrible risk, Miss Latch, but I’ll do it,” drawled Corny.

  “Risk of what?” she queried, swiftly. “Is there a sheriff after you or—or——”

  “The on’y sheriff I ever met on the Chisholm Trail is daid. It couldn’t very wal be him… No, the risk I meant is more turrible than trailin’ sheriffs.”

  “Indeed!” replied Miss Latch, her color mounting in a wave. “Pray let us see if you can dare such terrible risk as bravely as you faced these bandits.”

  Corny turned to mount his horse. And when he got up the stage-coach was in motion. He rolled a cigarette, noting that his fingers were not shaking. Singular! They certainly had shaken that morning. But somehow this was different. Corny never even glanced over his shoulder toward the spot where Simpson had dragged the bodies off the road. Presently Corny fell in behind the stage-coach and kept about the same distance, except on the upgrades, when he dropped back a little.

  It was some time before he realized that no other adventure of his life had affected him like this one. When he discovered that for miles he had not had a thought of anything but this violet-eyed Latch girl he was amused, then chagrined, and finally bewildered. “Gosh! I just bored two hombres an’ heah I am dreamin’ of a girl’s violet eyes an’ cherry lips! Dog-gone-it! I’m out of my haid!”

  He rode on and straightway fell under the magic spell again. She could not be a day over sixteen and she was as lovely as the cornflowers he and Lester had loved as children. He remembered that her hair was gold with a glint of red and that her eyes were a changing purple. But he could not recall the rest of her face. How strange that Weaver should suggest that he ride west to Latch’s Field! The idea held a nameless and incalculable charm. But he could never yield to it. Even to watch this girl from a distance was out of the question. He was nothing but a vaquero and he had blood on his hands. Somehow never before had he regarded this fact of self-preservation as a crime. Her eyes had dilated and she had averted them. Still, he reflected, she was Latch’s daughter. She was a Southerner, surely a Texan. The spirit of the Alamo, the blood of fighting martyrs, might run in her veins.

  Corny tried to recall all that he had ever heard about Latch’s Field and the man who had made it noted on the border. Somewhere down on the Brazo’s at Dean’s Store, on the trail to Abilene, and in a gambling-hell, vague range gossip had met his ears, not to be retained. Nevertheless it whetted his curiosity. What kind of man was this Steve Latch? Another Maxwell, no doubt, or a Colonel St. Vrain, or Don Esperanza, or a rich cattle baron like the Chisholms. Corny would have been proud to ride for such a man, if that were possible.

  Thus Corny dreamed and thought as he rode on, keeping the stage-coach in sight. Progress had been gradually slower owing to an almost imperceptible upgrade. His habit of looking back had made him aware of the rising trend of the prairie. And every time he looked he felt a regret for the old cattle trail. He should not have regretted it. The Chisholm Trail had given him toil, privation, a quick trigger, and a hard name, and at last had turned him away, if not an outlaw, at least an outcast trail-driver.

  The sun was westering low over the bold uneven horizon when Corny espied the caravan wheeling off the road to make camp. The white canvas-covered wagons, the horses and oxen, the meaning of their presence and movement, struck Corny to admiration and respect. Pioneers! Builders! The thought had never before intrigued him. Then the setting was so wild and picturesque. A small herd of buffalo was raising the dust off to the right; deer were retreating into the willow brakes; the little valley was dotted all over with trees; and the setting sun flushed the long grass into rose.

  Sight of camp in the making reminded Corny that he had to meet Miss Latch again—a perturbing thing to look forward to. His horse, sensing relief and water and grass, repeatedly broke out of a walk. And at last Corny let him go. The stage-coach rolled off the road down a slight grade, to halt at the first wagons. Corny followed, but, once down in the valley, he swerved to the right to dismount near a big prairie-schooner.

  “Howdy, rider,” greeted a tow-headed emigrant, cheery and hearty. “Was you with that coach?”

  “Shore. I was scoutin’ behind. But I can eat with you if you ask me,” replied Corny, genially.

  “Haw! Haw! You’re welcome, cowboy. Throw your saddle an’ grab the ax.”

  Straightway Corny found himself an object of interest to a family named Prescott, consisting of father, mother, grown son, a daughter about eighteen years old, and a lad of ten. Corny guessed they were from Georgia even before he heard them talk. They were solid plain folk bound West to win a livelihood out of the soil. The girl was shy, yet treated him to most complimentary glances. Corny made the mental observation that now, having given up the lonely trail of the cattle-driver he might expect to meet a girl anywhere on roads, at the military forts, the trading-posts and ranches. It was a disturbing thought. Girls never left him to himself. That had always been something incomprehensible. Unless it was because he is a cowboy, wore a huge sombrero and spurs, and packed guns, he had no idea why.

  “Say, if you left them guns off you could set down to eat,” said the lad, practically, as Corny knelt cowboy fashion to partake of his generous supper.

  “That’d never do, sonny. When the Comanches come swoopin’ down a fellow wants to be ready,” replied Corny, not unmindful of the large dark eyes across the tarpaulin.

  “Shucks! The Injuns I’ve seen wouldn’t swoop on nothin’,” replied the lad, disgustedly.

  “Wal, wait awhile till we get farther west along the river. The redskins are with the buffalo.”

  “Haven’t seen no buffalo, nuther.”

  “If you look sharp you’ll see some tomorrow.”

  The father of the lad had been late with his chores and was washing his hands at the wagon when another member of the caravan strode up.

  “Bill, that stage-coach was held up by bandits back a ways on the road,” he declared, loud enough for all to hear.

  “Hell, you say!” ejaculated the other, straightening up.

  “Yes. Two men follered the coach which was tryin’ to catch up with us. They was both shot by a cowboy. Accordin’ to the driver, thet cowboy come along with him, ridin’ back a ways. He must be heah somewheres. Bridgeman wants him.”

  “Ahuh. I reckon your cowboy is eatin’ with us.”

  Corny heard it all with lowered face. What was the use? He must always be a target for notice.

  “Aw!” burst out the lad, breathlessly.

  Slowly Corny arose to meet the messenger. The girl’s big startled eyes appeared to express what had fascinated her in him.

  “Are you the rider who came along with the. Latch coach?”

  Corny nodded coolly.

  “Boss wants to see you.”

  “What aboot?”

  “Didn’t say. I reckon he wants a report of that hold-up.”

  Corny allowed himself to be led toward a semicircle of wag
ons. Smoking fires and fragrant odors, with people sitting and bustling around, attested to the camp meal. Latch’s stage-coach stood at one side under a tree, with the tongue propped on a branch. Out of the tail of his eye Corny saw a number of the opposite sex, but he did not look closer. He did not like this situation. Still, he supposed he should permit himself to be interrogated out of courtesy to Miss Latch.

  “Heah’s your cowboy, Bridgeman,” spoke up Corny’s companion as they entered the circle to encounter several men.

  Corny’s glance never got any farther than the foremost—a tall rugged Texan with gray eyes like gimlets. Corny recognized him, but had never known his name was Bridgeman.

  “Dad-gast my soul!” whooped out the caravan-leader, a warm bright smile breaking the hardness of his visage. “If it ain’t Corny!”

  “Wal!” ejaculated Corny, and it was certain he felt a rush of relief and pleasure.

  “I shore am glad to see you, cowboy,” declared Bridgeman, extending a huge hand. “How come you’re so far off the trail an’ the drags?”

  “So your name’s Bridgeman?” drawled Corny. “Dog-gone! I’ve heahed of you. An’ all the time I knew you! Shore glad to see you again, old timer. An’ I might ask what’re you’re doin’ so far off the Old Trail?”

  “I sold out, Corny. An’ I’m goin’ West to grow up with the country.”

  “Dog-gone! ’Pears to me a lot of good folks are doin’ that.”

  “You bet. Why not try it yourself?… Corny, we all heahed aboot the little service you did for Miss Latch an’ her school friends.”

  “Yeah? Somehow a fellow cain’t fork his hawse or doff his sombrero to a lady without it travelin’ up an’ down the range,” replied Corny, cool and nonchalant, sure of himself now that Bridgeman was going to ease the situation for him.

  “Folks, if I wasn’t afraid to embarrass this cowboy I’d tell you aboot him. It’s enough to say thet he happened around for me once, or I wouldn’t be heah. But don’t ask him no questions.”