CHAPTER XIA PARTING AND A VISIT
The problem which filled Duncan’s mind as he sat on the edge of the slope overlooking the river was a three-sided one. To reach a conclusion the emotions of fear, hatred, and jealousy would have to be considered in the light of their relative importance.
There was, for example, his fear of Dakota, which must be taken into account when he meditated any action prompted by his jealousy, and his fear of Dakota was a check on his desires, a damper which must control the heat of his emotions. He might hate Dakota, but his fear of him would prevent his taking any action which might expose his own life to risk. On the other hand, jealousy urged him to accept any risk; it kept telling him over and over that he was a fool to allow Dakota to live. But Duncanknew better than to attempt an open clash with Dakota; each time that he had looked into Dakota’s eyes he had seen there something which told him plainer than words of his own inferiority—that he would have no chance in a man-to-man encounter with him. And his latest experience with Dakota had proved that.
However, Duncan’s character would not permit him to concede defeat, and his revenge was not a thing to be considered lightly. Therefore, though he sat for a long time on the slope, meditating over his problem, in the end he smiled. It was not a good smile to see, for his eyes were alight with a crafty, designing gleam, and there was a cruel curve in the lines of his lips. When he finally mounted his pony and rode away from the slope he was whistling.
During the next few days he did not see much of Sheila, for he avoided the ranchhouse as much as possible. He rode out with Langford many times, and though he covertly questioned the Double R owner concerning the affair with Doubler he could gain no satisfying information. Langford’sreticence further aggravated the passions which rioted in his heart, and finally one afternoon when they rode up to the ranchhouse his curiosity could be held in check no longer, and he put the blunt question:
“What have you done about Doubler?”
Langford’s shifting eyes rested for the fraction of a second on the face of his manager, and then the old, bland smile came into his own and he answered smoothly: “Nothing.”
“I have been thinking,” said Duncan carelessly, but with a sharp side glance at his employer, “that it wouldn’t be a half bad idea to set a gunman on Doubler—a man like Dakota, for instance.”
The manager saw Langford’s lips straighten a little, and his eyes flashed with a sudden fire. The expression on Langford’s face strengthened the conviction already in Duncan’s mind concerning the motive of his employer’s visit to Dakota.
“I don’t think I care to have any dealings with Dakota,” said Langford shortly.
Duncan’s eyes blazed again. “I reckon if you’d go talk to him,” he persisted, turninghis head so that Langford could not see the suppressed rage in his eyes, “you might be able to make a deal with him.”
“I don’t wish to deal with him. I have decided not to bother Doubler at present. And I have no desire to talk with Dakota. Frankly, my dear Duncan, I don’t like the man.”
“You been in the habit of forming opinions of men you’ve never talked to?” said Duncan. He could not keep the sneer out of his voice.
Langford noticed it and laughed softly.
“It is my recollection that a certain man of my acquaintance advised me at length of Dakota’s shortcomings,” he said significantly. “For me to talk to Dakota after that would be to consider this man’s words valueless. I will have nothing to do with Dakota. That is,” he added, “unless you have altered your opinion of him.”
Duncan did not reply, and he said nothing more to Langford on the subject, but he had discovered that for some reason Langford had chosen to keep the knowledge of his visit to Dakota secret, and Duncan’ssuspicions that the visit concerned Doubler became a conviction. Filled with resentment over Langford’s attitude toward him, and with his mind definitely fixed upon the working out of his problem, Duncan decided to visit Doubler.
He chose a day when Langford had ridden away to a distant cow camp, and as when he was following the Double R owner, he did not ride the beaten trail but kept behind the ridges and in the depressions, and when he came within sight of Doubler’s cabin he halted to reconnoiter. A swift survey of the corral showed him a rangy, piebald pony, which he knew to belong to Dakota. As the animal had on a bridle and a saddle he surmised that Dakota’s visit would not be of long duration, and having no desire to visit Doubler in the presence of his rival, he shunted his own horse off the edge of a sand dune and down into the bed of a dry arroyo. Urging the animal along this, he presently reached a sand flat on whose edge arose a grove of fir-balsam and cottonwood.
For an hour, deep in the grove, hewatched the cabin, and at length he saw Dakota come out; saw a smile on his face; heard him laugh. His lips writhed at the sound, and he listened intently to catch the conversation which was carried on between the two men, but the distance was too great. However, he was able to judge from the actions of the two that their relations were decidedly friendly, and this discovery immediately raised a doubt in his mind as to the correctness of his deductions.
Yet the doubt did not seriously affect his determination to carry out the plan he had in mind, and when a few moments after coming out of the cabin, Dakota departed down the river trail, Duncan slowly rode out of the grove and approached the cabin.
Doubler stood in the open doorway, looking after Dakota, and when the latter finally disappeared around a bend in the river the nester turned and saw Duncan. Instantly he stepped inside the cabin door, reappearing immediately, holding a rifle. Duncan continued to ride forward, raising one hand, with the palm toward Doubler, as a sign of the peacefulness of his intentions. The latterpermitted him to approach, though he held the rifle belligerently.
“I want to talk,” said Duncan, when he had come near enough to make himself heard.
“Pull up right where you are, then,” commanded Doubler. He was silent while Duncan drew his pony to a halt and sat motionless in the saddle looking at him. Then his voice came with a truculent snap:
“You alone?”
Duncan nodded.
“Where’s your new boss?” sarcastically inquired Doubler. “Ain’t you scared he’ll git lost—runnin’ around alone without anyone to look after him?”
“I ain’t his keeper,” returned Duncan shortly.
Doubler laughed unbelievingly. “You was puttin’ in a heap of your time bein’ his keeper, the last I saw of you,” he declared coldly.
“Mebbe I was. We’ve had a falling out.” The venom in Duncan’s voice was not at all pretended. “He’s double crossed me.”
“Double crossed you?” There was disbelief and suspicion in Doubter’s laugh. “How’s he done that? I reckoned you was too smart for anyone to do that to you?” The sarcasm in this last brought a dark red into Duncan’s face, but he successfully concealed his resentment and smiled.
“That’s all right,” he said; “I’ve got more than that coming from you. I’m telling you about what he done to me if you ain’t got any objections to me getting off my horse.”
“Tell me from where you are.” In spite of the coldness in the nester’s voice there was interest in his eyes. “Mebbe you an’ him have had a fallin’ out, but I ain’t takin’ any chances on you bein’ my friend—not a durned chance.”
“That’s right. I don’t blame you for not wanting to take a chance, and I’m not pretending to be your friend. And I sure ain’t any friendly to Langford. He’s double crossed me, but I ain’t telling how he done it—that’s between him and me. But I want to tell you something that will interest you a whole lot. It’s about some guy which istrying to double cross you. To prove that I ain’t thinking to plug you when you ain’t looking I’m leaving my gun here.” He drew out his six-shooter and stuck it behind his slicker, dismounted, and threw the reins over the pony’s head.
In silence Doubler suffered him to approach, though he kept his rifle ready in his hand and his eyes still continued to wear a belligerent expression.
“You and me ain’t been what you might call friendly for a long time,” offered Duncan when he had halted a few feet from Doubler. “We’ve had words, but I’ve never tried to take any mean advantage of you—which I might have done if I’d wanted to.” He smiled ingratiatingly.
“We ain’t goin’ to go over what’s happened between us,” declared Doubler coldly. “We’re lettin’ that go by. If you’ll stick to the palaver that you spoke about mebbe we’ll be able to git along for a minute or two. Meanwhile, you’ll excuse me if I keep this here gun in shape for you if you try any monkey business.”
Duncan masked his dislike of Doublerunder a deprecatory smile. “That’s right,” he agreed. “We’ll let what’s happened pass without talking about it. What’s between us now is something different. I’ve never pretended to be your friend, and I’m not pretending to be your friend now. But I’ve always been square with you, and I’m square now. Can you say that about him?” He jerked his thumb in the direction of the river trail, on which Dakota had vanished some time before.
“Him?” inquired Doubler. “You mean Dakota?” He caught Duncan’s nod and smiled slowly. “I reckon you’re some off your range,” he said. “There ain’t no comparin’ Dakota to you—he’s always been my friend.”
“A man’s got a friend one day and he’s an enemy the next,” said Duncan mysteriously.
“Meanin’?”
“Meaning that Dakota ain’t so much of a friend as you think he is.”
Doubler’s lips grew straight and hard. “I reckon that ends the palaver,” he said coldly, while he fingered the rifle in his handsignificantly. “If that’s what you come for you can be hittin’ the breeze right back to the Double R. I’m givin’ you——”
“You’re traveling too fast,” remonstrated Duncan, a hoarseness coming into his voice. “You’ll talk different when you hear what I’ve got to say. I reckon you know that Langford ain’t any friendly to you?”
“I don’t see—” began Doubler.
He was interrupted by Duncan’s harsh laugh. “Of course you don’t see,” he said. “I’ve come over here to make you open your eyes. Langford ain’t no friend of yours, and I reckon that you wouldn’t consider any man your friend which sets in his cabin a couple of hours talking to Langford, about you?”
“Meanin’ that Langford’s been to see Dakota?” Doubler’s voice was suddenly harsh and his eyes glinted with suspicion. Certain that he had scored, Duncan turned and smiled into the distance. When he again faced Doubler his face wore an expression of sympathy.
“When a man’s been a friend to you andyou find that he’s going to double cross you, it’s apt to make you feel pretty mean,” he said. “I’m allowing that. But there’s a lot of us get double crossed. I got it and I’m seeing that they don’t ring in any cold deck on you.”
“How do you know Dakota’s tryin’ to do that?” demanded Doubler.
Duncan laughed. “I’ve kept my eyes open. Also, I’ve been listening right hard. I wasn’t so far away when Langford went to Dakota’s shack, and I heard considerable of what they said about you.”
Doubler’s interest was now intense; he spoke eagerly: “What did they say?”
“I reckon you ought to be able to guess what they said,” said Duncan with a crafty smile. “I reckon you know that Langford wants your land mighty bad, don’t you? And you won’t sell. Didn’t he tell you in front of me that he was going to make trouble for you? He wants me to make it, though; he wants me to set the boys on you. But I won’t do it. Then he shuts up like a clam and don’t say anything more to me about it. He saw Dakota send Blanca overthe divide and he’s some impressed by his shooting. He figures that if Dakota puts one man out of business he’ll put another out.”
“Meanin’ that Langford’s hired Dakota to look for me?” Doubler’s eyes were gleaming brightly.
“You’re some keen, after all,” taunted Duncan.
Doubler’s jaws snapped. “You’re a liar!” he said; “Dakota wouldn’t do it!”
“Maybe I’m a liar,” said Duncan, his face paling but his voice low and quiet. He was not surprised that Doubler should exhibit emotion over the charge that his friend was planning to murder him, yet he knew that the suspicion once established in Doubler’s mind would soon grow to the stature of a conviction.
“Maybe I’m a liar,” repeated Duncan. “But if you’ll use your brain a little you’ll see that things look bad for you. Dakota’s been here. Did he tell you about Langford coming to see him? I reckon not,” he added as he caught Doubler’s blank stare; “he’d likely not tell you about it. But I reckonthat if he was your friend he’d tell you. I reckon you told him about Langford wanting your land—about him telling you he’d make things hot for you?”
Doubler nodded silently, and Duncan continued. “Well,” he said, with a short laugh, “I’ve told you, and it’s up to you. They were talking about you, and if Dakota’s your friend, as you’re claiming him to be, he’d have told you what they was talking about—if it wasn’t what I say it was—him knowing how Langford feels toward you. And they didn’t only talk. Langford wrote something on a paper and gave it to Dakota. I don’t know what he wrote, but it seemed to tickle Dakota a heap. Leastways, he done a heap of laffing over it. Likely Langford’s promised him a heap of dust to do the job. Mebbe he’s your friend, but if I was you I wouldn’t give him no chance to say I drawed first.”
Doubler placed his rifle down and passed a hand slowly and hesitatingly over his forehead. “I don’t like to think that of Dakota,” he said, faith and suspicion battling for supremacy. “Dakota just left here; heacted a heap friendly—as usual—mebbe more so.”
“I reckon that when a man goes gunning for another man he don’t advertise a whole lot,” observed Duncan insinuatingly.
“No,” agreed Doubler, staring blankly into the distance where he had last seen his supposed friend, “a man don’t generally do a heap of advertisin’ when he’s out lookin’ for a man.” He sat for a time staring straight ahead, and then he suddenly looked up, his eyes filled with a savage fierceness. “How do I know you ain’t lyin’ to me?” he demanded, glaring at Duncan, his hands clenched in an effort to control himself.
Duncan’s eyes did not waver. “I reckon youdon’tknow whether I’m lying,” he returned, showing his teeth in a slight smile. “But I reckon you’re twenty-one and ought to have your eye-teeth cut. Anyway, you ought to know that a man like Langford, who’s wanting your land, don’t go to talk with a man like Dakota, who’s some on the shoot, for nothing. How do you know that Langford and Dakota ain’t friends? How do you know but that they’ve been friendsback East? Do you know where Dakota came from? Mebbe he’s from the East, too. I’m telling you one thing,” added Duncan, and now his voice was filled with passion, “Dakota and Sheila Langford are pretty thick. She makes believe that she don’t like him, but he saved her from a quicksand, and she’s been running with him considerable. Takes his part, too; does it, but she makes you believe that she don’t like him. I reckon she’s pretty foxy.”
Doubler’s memory went back to a conversation he had had with Sheila in which Dakota had been the subject under discussion. He remembered that she had shown a decided coldness, suggesting by her manner that she and Dakota were not on the best of terms. Could it be that she had merely pretended this coldness? Could it be that she was concerned in the plot against him, that she and her father and Dakota were combined against him for the common purpose of taking his life?
He was convinced that any such suspicion against Sheila must be unjust, for he had studied her face many times and was certainthat there was not a line of deceit in it. And yet, was it not odd that, when he had told her of the trouble between him and her father, she had not immediately taken her parent’s side? To be sure, she had told him that Langford was merely her stepfather, but could not that statement also have been a misleading one? And even if Langford were only her stepfather, would she not have felt it her duty to align herself with him?
“I reckon you know a heap about Dakota, don’t you?” came Duncan’s voice, breaking into Doubler’s reflections. “You know, for instance, that Dakota came here from Dakota—or anyway, he says he came here from there. We’ll say you know that. But what do you know about Langford? Didn’t he tell you that he was going to ‘get’ you?”
Duncan turned his back to Doubler and walked to his pony. He drew out his six-shooter, stuck it into its holster, and placed one foot in a stirrup, preparatory to mounting. Then he turned and spoke gravely to Doubler.
“I’ve done all I could,” he said. “You know how you stand and the rest of it is up to you. You can go on, letting Dakota and Sheila pretend to be friendly to you, and some day you’ll get wise awful sudden—when it’s too late. Or, you can wise up now and fix Dakota before he gets a chance at you. I reckon that’s all. You can’t say that I didn’t put you wise to the game.”
He swung into the saddle and urged the pony toward the crossing. Looking back from a crest of a rise on the other side of the river, he saw Doubler still standing in the doorway, his head bowed in his hands. Duncan smiled, his lips in cold, crafty curves, for he had planted the seed of suspicion and was satisfied that it would presently flourish and grow until it would finally accomplish the destruction of his rival, Dakota.
CHAPTER XIIA MEETING ON THE RIVER TRAIL
About ten o’clock in the morning of a perfect day Sheila left the Double R ranchhouse for a ride to the Two Forks to visit Doubler. This new world into which she had come so hopefully had lately grown very lonesome. It had promised much and it had given very little. The country itself was not to blame for the state of her mind, though, she told herself as she rode over the brown, sun-scorched grass of the river trail, it was the people. They—even her father—seemed to hold aloof from her.
It seemed that she would never be able to fit in anywhere. She was convinced that the people with whom she was forced to associate were entirely out of accord with the principles of life which had been her guide—they appeared selfish, cold, and distant.Duncan’s sister, the only woman beside herself in the vicinity, had discouraged all her little advances toward a better acquaintance, betraying in many ways a disinclination toward those exchanges of confidence which are the delight of every normal woman. Sheila had become aware very soon that there could be no hope of gaining her friendship or confidence and so of late she had ceased her efforts.
Of course, she could not attempt to cultivate an acquaintance with any of the cowboys—she already knewonetoo well, and the knowledge of her relationship to him had the effect of dulling her desire for seeking the company of the others.
For Duncan she had developed a decided dislike which amounted almost to hatred. She had been able to see quite early in their acquaintance the defects of his character, and though she had played on his jealousy in a spirit of fun, she had been careful to make him see that anything more than mere acquaintance was impossible. At least that was what she had tried to do, and she doubted much whether she had succeeded.
Doubler was the only one who had betrayed any real friendship for her, and to him, in her lonesomeness, she turned, in spite of the warning he had given her. She had visited him once since the day following her father’s visit, and he had received her with his usual cordiality, but she had been able to detect a certain constraint in his manner which had caused her to determine to stay away from the Two Forks. But this morning she felt that she must go somewhere, and she selected Doubler’s cabin.
Since that day when on the edge of the butte overlooking the river Duncan had voiced his suspicions that her father had planned to remove Doubler, Sheila had felt more than ever the always widening gulf that separated her from her parent. From the day on which he had become impatient with her when she had questioned him concerning his intentions with regard to Doubler he had treated her in much the manner that he always treated her, though it had seemed to her that there was something lacking; there was a certain strained civility in his manner, a veneer which smoothed overthe breach of trust which his attitude that day had created.
Many times, watching him, Sheila had wondered why she had never been able to peer through the mask of his imperturbability at the real, unlovely character it concealed. She believed it was because she had always trusted him and had not taken the trouble to try to uncover his real character. She had tried for a long time to fight down the inevitable, growing estrangement, telling herself that she had been, and was, mistaken in her estimate of his character since the day he had told her not to meddle with his affairs, and she had nearly succeeded in winning the fight when Duncan had again destroyed her faith with the story of her father’s visit to Dakota.
Duncan had added two and two, he had told her when furnishing her with the threads out of which he had constructed the fabric of his suspicions, and she was compelled to acknowledge that they seemed sufficiently strong. Contemplation of the situation, however, had convinced her that Dakota was partly to blame, and her angeragainst him—greatly softened since the rescue at the quicksand—flared out again.
Two weeks had passed since Duncan had told her of his suspicions, and they had been two weeks of constant worry and dread to her.
Unable to stand the suspense longer she had finally decided to seek out Dakota to attempt to confirm Duncan’s story of her father’s visit and to plead with Dakota to withhold his hand. But first she would see Doubler.
The task of talking to Dakota about anything was not to her liking, but she compromised with her conscience by telling herself that she owed it to herself to prevent the murder of Doubler—that if the nester should be killed with her in possession of the plan for his taking off, and able to lift a hand in protest or warning, she would be as guilty as her father or Dakota.
As she rode she could not help contrasting Dakota’s character to those of her father and Duncan. She eliminated Duncan immediately, as being not strong enough to compare either favorably or unfavorablywith either of the other two. And, much against her will, she was compelled to admit that with all his shortcomings Dakota made a better figure than her father. But there was little consolation for her in this comparison, for she bitterly assured herself that there was nothing attractive in either. Both had wronged her—Dakota deliberately and maliciously; her father had placed the bar of a cold civility between her and himself, and she could no longer go to him with her confidences. She had lost his friendship, and he had lost her respect.
Of late she had speculated much over Dakota. That day at the quicksand crossing he had seemed to be a different man from the one who had stood with revolver in hand before the closed door of his cabin, giving her a choice of two evils. For one thing, she was no longer afraid of him; in his treatment of her at the crossing he had not appeared as nearly so forbidding as formerly, had been almost attractive to her, in those moments when she could forget the injury he had done her. Those moments had been few, to be sure, but during them she hadcaught flashes of the real Dakota, and though she fought against admiring him, she knew that deep in her heart lingered an emotion which must be taken into account. He had really done her no serious injury, nothing which would not be undone through the simple process of the law, and in his manner on the day of the rescue there had been much respect, and in spite of the mocking levity with which he had met her reproaches she felt that he felt some slight remorse over his action.
For a time she forgot to think about Dakota, becoming lost in contemplation of the beauty of the country. Sweeping away from the crest of the ridge on which she was riding, it lay before her, basking in the warm sunlight of the morning, wild and picturesque, motionless, silent—as quiet and peaceful as might have been that morning on which, his work finished, the Creator had surveyed the new world with a satisfied eye.
She had reached a point about a mile from Doubler’s cabin, still drinking in the beauty that met her eyes on every hand, when an odd sound broke the perfect quiet.
Suddenly alert, she halted her pony and listened.
The sound had been strangely like a pistol shot, though louder, she decided, as she listened to its echo reverberating in the adjacent hills. It became fainter, and finally died away, and she sat for a long time motionless in the saddle, listening, but no other sound disturbed the solemn quiet that surrounded her.
It seemed to her that the sound had come from the direction of Doubler’s cabin, but she was not quite certain, knowing how difficult it was to determine the direction of sound in so vast a stretch of country.
She ceased to speculate, and once more gave her attention to the country, urging her pony forward, riding down the slope of the ridge to the level of the river trail.
Fifteen minutes later, still holding the river trail, she saw a horseman approaching, and long before he came near enough for her to distinguish his features she knew the rider for Dakota. He was sitting carelessly in the saddle, one leg thrown over the pommel, smoking a cigarette, and whenhe saw her he threw the latter away, doffed his broad hat, and smiled gravely at her.
“Were you shooting?” she questioned, aware that this was an odd greeting, but eager to have the mystery of that lone shot cleared up.
“I reckon I ain’t been shooting—lately,” he returned. “It must have been Doubler. I heard it myself. I’ve just left Doubler, and he was cleaning his rifle. He must have been trying it. I do that myself, often, after I’ve cleaned mine, just to make sure it’s right.” He narrowed his eyes whimsically at her. “So you’re riding the fiver trail again?” he said. “I thought you’d be doing it.”
“Why?” she questioned, defiantly.
“Well, for one thing, there’s a certain fascination about a place where one has been close to cashing in—I expect that when we’ve been in such a place we like to come back and look at it just to see how near we came to going over the divide. And there’s another reason why I expected to see you on the river trail again. You forgot to thank me for pulling you out.”
He deserved thanks for that, she knew. But there were in his voice and eyes the same subtle mockery which had marked his manner that other time, and as before she experienced a feeling of deep resentment. Why could he not have shown some evidence of remorse for his crime against her? She believed that had he done so now she might have found it in her heart to go a little distance toward forgiving him. But there was only mockery in his voice and words and her resentment against him grew. Mingling with it, moreover, was the bitterness which had settled over her within the last few days. It found expression in her voice when she answered him:
“This country is full of—of savages!”
“Indians, you mean, I reckon? Well, no, there are none around here—excepting over near Fort Union, on the reservation.” He drawled hatefully and regarded her with a mild smile.
“I mean white savages!” she declared spitefully.
His smile grew broader, and then slowly faded and he sat quiet, studying her face.The silence grew painful; she moved uneasily under his direct gaze and a dash of color swept into her cheeks. Then he spoke quietly.
“You been seeing white savages?”
“Yes!” venomously.
“Not around here?” The hateful mockery of that drawl!
“I am talking to one,” she said, her eyes blazing with impotent anger.
“I thought you was meaning me,” he said, without resentment. “I reckon I’ve got it coming to me. But at the same time that isn’t exactly the way to talk to your——” He hesitated and smiled oddly, apparently aware that he had made a mistake in referring to his crime against her. He hastened to repair it. “Your rescuer,” he corrected.
However, she saw through the artifice, and the bitterness in her voice grew more pronounced. “It is needless for you to remind me of our relationship,” she said; “I am not likely to forget.”
“Have you told your father yet?”
In his voice was the quiet scorn and thepeculiar, repressed venom which she had detected when he had referred to her father during that other occasion at the crossing. It mystified her, and yet within the past few days she had felt this scorn herself and knew that it was not remarkable. Undoubtedly he, having had much experience with men, had been able to see through Langford’s mask and knew him for what he was. For the first time in her life she experienced a sensation of embarrassed guilt over hearing her name linked with Langford’s, and she looked defiantly at Dakota.
“I have not told him,” she said. “I won’t tell him. I told you that before—I do not care to undergo the humiliation of hearing my name mentioned in the same breath with yours. And if you do not already know it, I want to tell you that David Langford is not my father; my real father died a long time ago, and Langford is only my stepfather.”
A sudden moisture was in her eyes and she did not see Dakota start, did not observe the queer pallor that spread over his face, failed to detect the odd light in hiseyes. However, she heard his voice—sharp in tone and filled with genuine astonishment.
“Your stepfather?” He had spurred his pony beside hers and looking up she saw that his face had suddenly grown stern and grim. “Do you mean that?” he demanded half angrily. “Why didn’t you tell me that before? Why didn’t you tell me when—the night I married you?”
“Would it have made any difference to you?” she said bitterly. “Does it make any difference now? You have treated me like a savage; you are treating me like one now. I—I haven’t any friends at all,” she continued, her voice breaking slightly, as she suddenly realized her entire helplessness before the combined evilness of Duncan, her father, and the man who sat on his pony beside her. A sob shook her, and her hands went to her face, covering her eyes.
She sat there for a time, shuddering, and watching her closely, Dakota’s face grew slowly pale, and grim, hard lines came into his lips.
“I know what Duncan’s friendshipamounts to,” he said harshly. “But isn’t your stepfather your friend?”
“My friend?” She echoed his words with a hopeless intonation that closed Dakota’s teeth like a vise. “I don’t know what has come over him,” she continued, looking up at Dakota, her eyes filled with wonder for the sympathy which she saw in his face and voice; “he has changed since he came out here; he is so selfish and heartless.”
“What’s he been doing? Hurting you?” She did not detect the anger in his voice, for he had kept it so low that she scarcely heard the words.
“Hurting me? No; he has not done anything to me. Don’t you know?” she said scornfully, certain that he was mocking her again—for how could his interest be genuine when he was a party to the plot to murder Doubler? Yet perhaps not—maybe Duncanhadbeen lying. Determined to get to the bottom of the affair as quickly as possible, Sheila continued rapidly, her scorn giving way to eagerness. “Don’t you know?” And this time her voice was almost a plea. “What did father visit youfor? Wasn’t it about Doubler? Didn’t he hire you to—to kill him?”
She saw his lips tighten strangely, his face grow pale, his eyes flash with some mysterious emotion, and she knew in an instant that he was guilty—guilty as her father!
“Oh!” she said, and the scorn came into her voice again. “Then it is true! You and my father have conspired to murder an inoffensive old man! You—you cowards!”
He winced, as though he had received an unexpected blow in the face, but almost immediately he smiled—a hard, cold, sneering smile which chilled her.
“Who has been telling you this?” The question came slowly, without the slightest trace of excitement.
“Duncan told me.”
“Duncan?” There was much contempt in his voice. “Not your father?”
She shook her head negatively, wondering at his cold composure. No wonder her father had selected him!
He laughed mirthlessly. “So that’s the reason Doubler was so friendly to his rifle this morning?” he said, as though herwords had explained a mystery which had been puzzling him. “Doubler and me have been friends for a long time. But this morning while I was talking to him he kept his rifle beside him all the time. He must have heard from someone that I was gunning for him.”
“Then you haven’t been hired to kill him?”
He smiled at her eagerness, but spoke gravely and with an earnestness which she could not help but feel. “Miss Sheila,” he said, “there isn’t money enough in ten counties like this to make me kill Doubler.” His lips curled with a quiet sarcasm. “You are like a lot of other people in this country,” he added. “Because I put Blanca away they think I am a professional gunman. But I wantyou”—he placed a significant emphasis on the word—“to understand that there wasn’t any other way to deal with Blanca. By coming back here after selling me that stolen Star stock and refusing to admit the deed in the presence of other people—even denying it and accusing me—he forced me to take the step I didwith him. Even then, I gave him his chance. That he didn’t take it isn’t my fault.
“I suppose I look pretty black to you, because I treated you like I did. But it was partly your fault, too. Maybe that’s mysterious to you, but it will have to stay a mystery. I had an idea in my head that night—and something else. I’ve found something out since that makes me feel a lot sorry. If I had known what I know now, that wouldn’t have happened to you—I’ve got my eyes open now.”
Their ponies were very close together, and leaning over suddenly he placed both hands on her shoulders and gazed into her eyes, his own flashing with a strange light. She did not try to escape his hands, for she felt that his sincerity warranted the action.
“I’ve treated you mean, Sheila,” he said; “about as mean as a man could treat a woman. I am sorry. I want you to believe that. And maybe some day—when this business is over—you’ll understand and forgive me.”
“This business?” Sheila drew back andlooked at him wonderingly. “What do you mean?”
There was no mirth in his laugh as he dropped his hands to his sides. Her question had brought about a return of that mocking reserve which she could not penetrate. Apparently he would let her no farther into the mystery whose existence his words had betrayed. He had allowed her to get a glimpse of his inner self; had shown her that he was not the despicable creature she had thought him; had apparently been about to take her into his confidence. And she had felt a growing sympathy for him and had been prepared to meet him half way in an effort to settle their differences, but she saw that the opportunity was gone—was hidden under the cloak of mystery which had been about him from the beginning of their acquaintance.
“This Doubler business,” he answered, and she nibbled impatiently at her lips, knowing that he had meant something else.
“That’s evasion,” she said, looking straight at him, hoping that he would relent and speak.
“Is it?” In his unwavering eyes she saw a glint of grim humor. “Well, that’s the answer. I am not going to kill Doubler—if it will do you any good to know. I don’t kill my friends.”
“Then,” she said eagerly, catching at the hope which he held out to her, “father didn’t hire you to kill him? You didn’t talk to father about that?”
His lips curled. “Why don’t you ask your father about that?”
The hope died within her. Dakota’s words and manner implied that her father had tried to employ him to make way with the nester, but that he had refused. She had not been wrong—Duncan had not been wrong in his suspicion that her father was planning the death of the nester. Duncan’s only mistake was in including Dakota in the scheme.
She had hoped against hope that she might discover that Duncan had been wrong altogether; that she had done her father an injury in believing him capable of deliberately planning a murder. She looked again at Dakota. There was no mistaking hisearnestness, she thought, for there was no evidence of deceit or knavery in his face, nor in the eyes that were steadily watching her.
She put her hands to her face and shivered, now thoroughly convinced of her father’s guilt; feeling a sudden repugnance for him, for everybody and everything in the country, excepting Doubler.
She had done all she could, however, to prevent them killing Doubler—all she could do except to warn Doubler of his danger, and she would go to him immediately. Without looking again at Dakota she turned, dry eyed and pale, urging her pony up the trail toward the nester’s cabin, leaving Dakota sitting silent in his saddle, watching her.
She lingered on the trail, riding slowly, halting when she came to a spot which offered a particularly good view of the country surrounding her, for in spite of her lonesomeness she could not help appreciating the beauty of the land, with its towering mountains, its blue sky, its vast, yawning distances, and the peacefulness whichseemed to be everywhere except in her heart.
She presently reached the Two Forks and urged her pony through the shallow water of its crossing, riding up the slight, intervening slope and upon a stretch of plain beside a timber grove. A little later she came to the corral gates, where she dismounted and hitched her pony to a rail, smiling to herself as she thought of how surprised Doubler would be to see her.
Then she left the corral gate and stole softly around a corner of the cabin, determined to steal upon Doubler unawares. Once at the corner, she halted and peered around. She saw Doubler lying in the open doorway, his body twisted into a peculiarly odd position, face down, his arms outstretched, his legs doubled under him.
CHAPTER XIIITHE SHOT IN THE BACK
For an instant after discovering Doubler lying in the doorway, Sheila stood motionless at the corner of the cabin, looking down wonderingly at him. She thought at first that he was merely resting, but his body was doubled up so oddly that a grave doubt rose in her mind. A vague fear clutched at her heart, and she stood rigid, her eyes wide as she looked for some sign that would confirm her fears. And then she saw a moist red patch on his shirt on the right side just below the shoulder blade, and it seemed that a band of steel had been suddenly pressed down over her forehead. Something had happened to Doubler!
The world reeled, objects around her danced fantastically, the trees in the grove near her seemed to dip toward her in derision,her knees sagged and she held tightly to the corner of the cabin for support in her weakness.
She saw it all in a flash. Dakota had been to visit Doubler and had shot him. She had heard the shot. Duncan had been right, and Dakota—how she despised him now!—was probably even now picturing in his imagination the scene of her discovering the nester lying on his own threshold, murdered. An anger against him, which arose at the thought, did much to help her regain control of herself.
She must be brave now, for there might still be life in Doubler’s body, and she went slowly toward him, cringing and shrinking, along the wall of the cabin.
She touched him first, lightly with the tips of her fingers, calling softly to him in a quavering voice. Becoming more bold, she took hold of him by the left shoulder and shook him slightly, and her heart seemed to leap within her when a faint moan escaped his lips. Her fear fled instantly as she realized that he was alive, that she had not to deal with a dead man.
Stifling a quivering sob she took hold of him again, tugging and pulling at him, trying to turn him over so that she might see his face. She observed that the red patch on his shoulder grew larger with the effort, and her face grew paler with apprehension, but convinced that she must persist she shut her eyes and tugged desperately at him, finally succeeding in pulling him over on his back.
He moaned again, though his face was ashen and lifeless, and with hope filling her heart she redoubled her efforts and finally succeeded in dragging him inside the cabin, out of the sun, where he lay inert, with wide-stretched arms, a gruesome figure to the girl.
Panting and exhausted, some stray wisps of hair sweeping her temples, the rest of it threatening to come tumbling down around her shoulders, she leaned against one of the door jambs, thinking rapidly. She ought to have help, of course, and her thoughts went to Dakota, riding unconcernedly away on the river trail. She could not go to him for assistance, such a course was not to beconsidered, she would rather let Doubler die than to go to his murderer; she could never have endured the irony of such an action. Besides, she was certain that even were she to go to him, he would find some excuse to refuse her, for having shot the nester, he certainly would do nothing toward bringing the help which might possibly restore him to life.
She put aside the thought with a shudder of horror, yet conscious that something must be done for Doubler at once if he was to live. Perhaps it was already too late to go for assistance; there seemed to be but very little life in his body, and trembling with anxiety she decided that she must render him whatever aid she could. There was not much that she could do, to be sure, but if she could do something she might keep him alive until other help would come.
She stood beside the door jamb and watched him for some time, for she dreaded the idea of touching him again, but after a while her courage returned, and she again went to him, kneeling down beside him, laying her head on his breast and listening.His heart was beating, faintly, but still it was beating, and she rose from him, determined.
She found a sheath knife in one of his pockets, and with this she cut the shirt away from the wound, discovering, when she drew the pieces of cloth away, that there was a large, round hole in his breast. She came near to swooning when she thought of the red patch on his back, for that seemed to prove that the bullet had gone clear through him. It had missed a vital spot, though, she thought, for it seemed to be rather high on the shoulder.
She got some water from a pail that stood just inside the door, and with this and some white cloth which she tore from one of her skirts, she bathed and bandaged the wound and laid a wet cloth on his forehead. She tried to force some of the water down his throat, but he could not swallow, lying there with closed eyes and drawing his breath in short, painful gasps.
After she had worked with him for a quarter of an hour or more she stood up, convinced that she had done all she couldfor him and that the next move would be to get a doctor.
She had heard Duncan say that it was fifty miles to Dry Bottom, and she knew that it was at least forty to Lazette. She had never heard anyone mention that there was a doctor nearer, and so of course she would have to go to Lazette—ten miles would make a great difference.
She might ride to the Double R ranchhouse, and she thought of going there, but it was at least ten miles off the Lazette trail, and even though at the Double R she might get a cowboy to make the ride to Lazette, she would be losing much valuable time. She drew a deep breath over the contemplation of the long ride—at best it would take her four hours—but she did not hesitate long and with a last glance at Doubler she was out of the door and walking to the corral, where she unhitched her pony, mounted, and sent the animal over the level toward the crossing at a sharp gallop.
Once over the crossing and on the river trail where the riding was better, she held the pony to an even, steady pace. Onemile, two miles, five or six she rode with her hair flying in the breeze, her cheeks pale, except for a bright red spot in the center of each—which betrayed the excitement under which she was laboring. There was a resolute gleam in her eyes, though, and she rode lightly, helping her pony as much as possible. However, the animal was fresh and did not seem to mind the pace, cavorting and lunging up the rises and pulling hard on the reins on the levels, showing a desire to run. She held it in, though, realizing that during the forty mile ride the animal would have plenty of opportunity to prove its mettle.
She reached and passed the quicksand crossing from which she had been pulled by Dakota, the pony running with the sure regularity of a machine, and was on a level which led into some hills directly ahead, when the pony stumbled.
She tried to jerk it erect with the reins, but in spite of the effort she felt it sink under her, and with a sensation of dismay clutching at her heart she slid out of the saddle.
A swift examination showed her that thepony’s right fore-leg was deep in the sand of the trail, and she surmised instantly that it had stepped into a prairie dog hole. When she went to it and raised its head it looked appealingly at her, and she stifled a groan of sympathy and began looking about for some means to extricate it.
She found this no easy task, for the pony’s leg was deep in the sand, and when she finally dug a space around it with a branch of tree which she procured from a nearby grove, the animal struggled out, only to limp badly. The leg, Sheila decided, after a quick examination, was not broken, but badly sprained, and she knew enough about horses to be certain that the injured pony would never be able to carry her to Lazette.
She would be forced to go to the Double R now, there was nothing else that she could do. Standing beside the pony, debating whether she had not better walk than try to ride him, even to the Double R, she heard a clatter of hoofs and turned to see Dakota riding the trail toward her. He was traveling in the direction she had been traveling when the accident had happened, and apparentlyhad left the trail somewhere back in the distance, or she would have seen him. Perhaps, she speculated, with a flash of dull anger, he had followed her near to Doubler’s cabin, perhaps had been near when she had dragged the wounded nester into it.
His first word showed her that there was ground for this suspicion. He drew up beside her and looked at her with a queer smile, and she, aware of his guilt, wondered at his composure.
“You didn’t stay long at Doubler’s shack,” he said. “I was on a ridge, back on the trail a ways, and I saw you hitting the breeze away from there some rapid. I was thinking to intercept you, but you went tearing by so fast that I didn’t get a chance. You’re in an awful hurry. What’s wrong?”
“You ought to know that,” she said, bitterly angry because of his pretended serenity. “You—you murderer!”
His face paled instantly, but his voice was clear and sharp.
“Murderer?” he said sternly. “Who has been murdered?”
“You don’t know, of course,” she said scornfully, her face flaming, her eyes alight with loathing and contempt. “You shot him and then let me ride on alone to—to find him, shot—shot in the back! Oh!”
She shuddered at the recollection, held her hands over her eyes for an instant to keep from looking at the expression of amazement in his eyes, and while she stood thus she heard a movement, and withdrew her hands from her eyes to see him standing beside her, so close that his body touched hers, his eyes ablaze with curiosity and interest and repressed anxiety. She cringed and cried with pain as he seized her arm and twisted her forcibly around so that she faced him.
“Stop this fooling and tell me what has happened!” he said, with short, incisive accents. “Who did you find shot? Who has been murdered?”
Oh, it was admirable acting, she told herself as she tore herself away from him and stood back a little, her eyes flashing with scorn and horror. “You don’t know, of course,” she flared. “You shot him—shothim in the back and sent me on to find him. You gloried in the thought of me finding him dead. But he isn’t dead, thank God, and will live, if I can get a doctor, to accuse you!” She pointed a finger at him, but he ignored it and took a step toward her, his eyes cold and boring into hers.
“Who?” he demanded. “Who?”
“Ben Doubler. Oh!” she cried, in an excess of rage and horror, “to think that I should have to tell you!”
But if he heard her last words he paid no attention to them, for he was suddenly at his pony’s side, buckling the cinches tighter. She watched him, fascinated at the repressed energy of his movements, and became so interested that she started when he suddenly looked up at her.
“He isn’t dead, then,” he said rapidly, sharply, the words coming with short, metallic snaps. “You were going to Lazette for a doctor. I’m glad I happened along—glad I saw you. I’ll be able to make better time than you.”
“Where are you going?” she demanded, scarcely having heard his words, thoughaware that he was preparing to leave. She took a step forward and seized his pony’s bridle rein, her eyes blazing with wrath over the thought that he should attempt to deceive her with so bald a ruse.
“For the doctor,” he said shortly. “This is no time for melodramatics, ma’am, if Doubler is badly hurt. Will you please let go of that bridle?”
“Do you think,” she demanded, her cheeks aflame, her hair, loosened from the long ride, straggling over her temples and giving her a singularly disheveled appearance, “that I am going to let you go for the doctor? You!”
“This isn’t a case where your feelings should be considered, ma’am,” he said. “If Ben Doubler has been hurt like you think he has I’m going to get the doctor mighty sudden, whether you think I ought to or not!”
“You won’t!” she declared, stamping a; foot furiously. “You shot him and now you want to disarm suspicion by going after the doctor for him. But you won’t! I won’t let you!”
“You’ll have to,” he said rapidly. “The doctor isn’t at Lazette; he is over on Carrizo Creek, taking care of Dave Moreland’s wife, who is down bad. I saw Dave yesterday, and he was telling me about her; that the doctor is to stay there until she is out of danger. You don’t know where Moreland’s place is. Be sensible, now,” he said gruffly. “I’ll talk to you later about you suspecting me.”
“You shan’t go,” she protested; “I am going myself. I will find Moreland’s place. I can’t let you go—it would be horrible!”
For answer he swung quickly down from the saddle, seized her by the waist, disengaged her hands from the bridle rein, and picking her up bodily carried her, struggling and fighting and striking blindly at his face, to the side of the trail. When he set her down he pinned her arms to her sides. He did not speak, and she was entirely helpless in his grasp, but when he released his grasp of her arms and tried to leave her she seized the collar of his vest. With a grim laugh he slipped out of the garment, leaving it dangling from her hand.
“Keep it for me, ma’am,” he said with a cold chuckle. “But get back to Doubler’s cabin and see what you can do for him. You’ll be able to do a lot. I’ll be back with the doctor before sundown.”
In an instant he was at his pony’s side, mounting with the animal at a run, and in a brief space had vanished around a turn in the trail, leaving a cloud of dust to mark the spot where Sheila had seen him disappear.
For a long time Sheila stood beside the trail, looking at the spot where he had disappeared, holding his vest with an unconscious grasp. Looking down she saw it and with an exclamation of rage threw it from her, watching it fall into the sand. But after an instant she went over and took it up, recovering, at the same time, a black leather pocket memoranda which had slipped out of it. She put the memoranda back into one of the pockets, handling both the book and the vest gingerly, for she felt an aversion to touching them. She conquered this feeling long enough to tuck the vest into the slicker behind the saddle, and then shemounted and sent her pony up the trail toward Doubler’s cabin.
She found Doubler where she had left him, and he was still unconscious. The water pail was empty and she went down to the river and refilled it, returning to the cabin and again bathing and bandaging Doubler’s wound, and placing a fresh cloth on his forehead.
For a time she sat watching the injured man, revolving the incident of her discovery of him in her mind, going over and over again the gruesome details. She did not dwell long on the latter, for she could not prevent her mind reviewing Dakota’s words and actions—his satanic cleverness in pretending to be on the verge of taking her into his confidence, his prediction that she would understand when this “business” was over. She did not need to wait, she understood now!
Finding the silence in the cabin irksome, she rose, placed Doubler’s head in a more comfortable position, and went outside into the bright sunshine of the afternoon. She took a turn around the corral, abstractedlywatched the awkward antics of several yearlings which were penned in a corner, and then returned to the cabin door, where she sat on the edge of the step.
Near the side of the cabin door, leaning against the wall, she saw a rifle. She started, not remembering to have seen it there before, but presently she found courage to take it up gingerly, turning it over and over in her hands.
Some initials had been carved on the stock and she examined them, making them out finally as “B. D.”—Doubler’s. Examining the weapon she found an empty shell in the chamber, and she nearly dropped the rifle when the thought struck her that perhaps Doubler had been shot with it. She set it down quickly, shuddering, and for diversion walked to her pony, examining the injured leg and rubbing it, the pony nickering gratefully. Returning to the cabin she sat for a long time on the step, but she did not again take up the rifle. Several times while she sat on the step she heard Doubler moan, and once she got up and went to him, again bathing his wound, but returning instantlyto the door step, for she could not bear the silence of the interior.
Suddenly remembering Dakota’s vest and the black leather memoranda which had dropped from one of the pockets, she got up again and went to the bench where she had laid the garment, taking out the book and regarding it with some curiosity.
There was nothing on the cover to suggest what might be the nature of its contents—time had worn away any printing that might have been on it. She hesitated, debating the propriety of an examination, but her curiosity got the better of her and with a sharp glance at Doubler she turned her back and opened the book.
Almost the first object that caught her gaze was a piece of paper, detached from the leaves, with some writing on it. The writing seemed unimportant, but as she turned it, intending to replace it between the leaves of the book, she saw her father’s name, and she read, holding her breath with dread, for fresh in her mind was Duncan’s charge that her father had entered into an agreement with Dakota for the murder ofDoubler. She read the words several times, standing beside the bench and swaying back and forth, a sudden weakness gripping her.
“One month from to-day”—ran the words—“I promise to pay to Dakota the sum of six thousand dollars in consideration of his rights and interest in the Star brand, provided that within one month from date he persuades Ben Doubler to leave Union County.”
Signed: “David Dowd Langford.”
There it was—conclusive, damning evidence of her father’s guilt—and of Dakota’s!
How cleverly that last clause covered the evil intent of the document! Sheila read it again and again with dry eyes. Her horror and grief were too great for tears. She felt that the discovery of the paper removed the last lingering doubt, and though she had been partially prepared for proof, she had not been prepared to have it thrust so quickly and convincingly before her.
How long she sat on the door step she did not know, or care, for at a stroke she had lost all interest in everything in the country.Even its people interested her only to the point of loathing—they were murderers, even her father. Time represented to her nothing now except a dreary space which, if she endured, would bring the moment in which she could leave. For within the last few minutes she seemed to have been robbed of all the things which had made existence here endurable and she was determined to end it all. When she finally got up and looked about her she saw that the sun had traveled quite a distance down the sky. A sorrowful smile reached her face as she watched it. It was going away, and before it could complete another circle she would go too—back to the East from where she had come, where there were at leastsomefriends who could be depended upon to commit no atrocious crimes.
No plan of action formed in her mind; she could not think lucidly with the knowledge that her father was convicted of complicity in an attempted murder.
Would she be able to face her father again? To bid him good-bye? She thought not. It would be better for both if she departedwithout him being aware of her going. He would not care, she told herself bitterly; lately he had withheld from her all those little evidences of affection to which she had grown accustomed, and it would not be hard for him, he would not miss her, perhaps would even be glad of her absence, for then he could continue his murderous schemes without fear of her “meddling” with them.
There was a fascination in the paper on which was written the signed agreement. She read it carefully again, and then concealed it in her bodice, pinning it there so that it would not become lost. Then she rose and went into the cabin, placing the memoranda on a shelf where Dakota would be sure to find it when he returned with the doctor. She did not care to read anything contained in it.
Marveling at her coolness, she went outside again and resumed her seat on the door step. It was not such a blow to her, after all, and there arose in her mind as she sat on the step a wonder, as to how her father would act were she to confront him withevidence of his guilt. Perhaps she would not show him the paper, but she finally became convinced that she must talk to him, must learn from him in some manner his connection with the attempted murder of Doubler. Then, after receiving from him some sign which would convince her, she would take her belongings and depart for the East, leaving him to his own devices.
Looking up at the sun, she saw that it still had quite a distance to travel before it reached the mountains. Stealing into the cabin, she once more fixed the bandages on the wounded man. Then she went out, mounted her pony, and rode through the shallow water of the crossing toward the Double R ranch.