But Dakota did not drown himself. Nor did he pull the pony out of the quicksand. She watched him as he rode to the water’s edge and looked at the animal. Her heart sank when he turned and looked gravely at her.
“I reckon your pony’s done for, ma’am,” he said. “There isn’t anything of him above the sand but his head and a little of his neck. He’s too far gone, ma’am. In half an hour he’ll——”
Sheila stood up, wet and excited. “Can’t you do something?” she pleaded. “Couldn’t you pull him out with your lariat—like you did me?”
There was a grim humor in his smile. “What do you reckon would have happened to you if I had tried to pull you out by the neck?” he asked.
“But can’t you do something?” she pleaded, her icy attitude toward him melting under the warmth of her affection and sympathy for the unfortunate pony. “Please do something!” she begged.
His face changed expression and he tapped one of his holsters significantly. “There’s only this left, I reckon. Pulling him out by the neck would break it, sure. And it’s never a nice thing to see—or hear—a horse or a cow sinking in quicksand. I’ve seen it once or twice and——”
Sheila shuddered and covered her face with her hands, for his words had set her imagination to working.
“Oh!” she said and became silent.
Dakota stood for a moment, watching her, his face grim with sympathy.
“It’s too bad,” he said finally. “I don’t like to shoot him, any more than you want to see it done. I reckon, though, that the pony would thank me for doing it if he could have anything to say about it.” He walked over close to her, speaking in a low voice. “You can’t stay here, of course. You’ll have to take my horse, and you’ll have to go right now, if you don’t want to be around when the pony——”
“Please don’t,” she said, interrupting him. He relapsed into silence, and stood gravely watching her as she resumed her toilet.
She disliked to accept his offer of the pony, but there seemed to be no other way. She certainly could not walk to the Double R ranchhouse, even to satisfy a desire to show him that she would not allow him to place her under any obligation to him.
“I’ve got to tell you one thing,” he said presently, standing erect and looking earnestly at her. “If Duncan is responsible for your safety in this country he isn’t showing very good judgment in letting you run around alone. There are dangers that you know nothing about, and you don’t know a thing about the country. Someone ought to take care of you.”
“As you did, for example,” she retorted, filled with anger over his present solicitation for her welfare, as contrasted to his treatment of her on another occasion.
A slow red filled his cheeks. Evidently he did possess some self-respect, after all. Contrition, too, she thought she could detect in his manner and in his voice.
“But I didn’t hurt you, anyway,” he said, eyeing her steadily.
“Not if you call ruining a woman’s name not ‘hurting’ her,” she answered bitterly.
“I am sorry for that, Miss Sheila,” he said earnestly. “I had an idea that night—and still have it, for that matter—that I was an instrument— Well, I had an idea, that’s all. But I haven’t told anybody about what happened—I haven’t even hinted it to anybody. And I told the parson to get out of the country, so he wouldn’t do any gassing about it. And I haven’t been over to Dry Bottom to have the marriage recorded—and I am not going to go. So that you can have it set aside at any time.”
Yes, she could have the marriage annulled, she knew that. But the contemplation of her release from the tie that bound her to him did not lessen the gravity of the offense in her eyes. She told herself that she hated him with a remorseless passion which would never cease until he ceased to live. No action of his could repair the damage he had done to her. She told him so, plainly.
“I didn’t know you were so blood-thirsty as that,” he laughed in quiet mockery. “Maybe it would be a good thing for you if I did die—or get killed. But I’m not allowing that I’m ready to die yet, and certainly am not going to let anybody kill me if I can prevent it. I reckon you’re not thinking of doing the killing yourself?”
“If I told my father—” she began, but hesitated when she saw his lips suddenly straighten and harden and his eyes light with a deep contempt.
“So you haven’t told your father?” he laughed. “I was sure you had taken him into your confidence by this time. But I reckon it’s a mighty good thing that you didn’t—for your father. Like as not if you’d tell him he’d get some riled and come right over to see me, yearning for my blood. And then I’d have to shoot him up some. And that would sure be too bad—you loving him as you do.”
“I suppose you would shoot him like you shot that poor fellow in Lazette,” she taunted, bitterly.
“Like I did that poor fellow in Lazette,” he said, with broad, ironic emphasis. “You saw me shoot Blanca, of course, for you were there. But you don’t know what made me shoot him, and I am not going to tell you—it’s none of your business.”
“Indeed!” Her voice was burdened with contempt. “I suppose you take a certain pride in your ability to murder people.” She placed a venomous accent on the “Murder.”
“Lots of people ought to be murdered,” he drawled, using the accent she had used.
Her contempt of him grew. “Then I presume you have others in mind—whom you will shoot when the mood strikes you?” she said.
“Perhaps.” His smile was mysterious and mocking, and she saw in his eyes the reckless gleam which she had noted that night while in the cabin with him. She shuddered and walked to the pony—his pony.
“If you have quite finished I believe I will be going,” she said, holding her chin high and averting her face. “I will have one of the men bring your horse to you.”
“I believe I have quite finished,” he returned, mimicking her cold, precise manner of speech.
She disdainfully refused his proffer of assistance and mounted the pony. He stood watching her with a smile, which she saw by glancing covertly at him while pretending to arrange the stirrup strap. When she started to ride away without even glancing at him, she heard his voice, with its absurd, hateful drawl:
“And she didn’t even thank me,” he said with mock bitterness and disappointment.
She turned and made a grimace at him. He bowed and smiled.
“You are entirely welcome,” she said.
He was standing on the edge of the quicksand, watching her, when she reached the long rise upon which she had sat on her pony on a day some weeks before, and when she turned he waved a hand to her. A little later she vanished over the rise, and she had not ridden very far when she heard the dull report of his pistol. She shivered, and rode on.
* * *
CHAPTER VIII
SHEILA FANS A FLAME
Sheila departed from the quicksand crossing nursing her wrath against the man who had rescued her, feeling bitterly vindictive against him, yet aware that the Dakota who had saved her life was not the Dakota whom she had feared during her adventure with him in his cabin on the night of her arrival in the country. He had changed, and though she assured herself that she despised him more than ever, she found a grim amusement in the recollection of his manner immediately following the rescue, and in a review of the verbal battle, in which she had been badly worsted.
His glances had had in them the quality of inward mirth and satisfaction which is most irritating, and behind his pretended remorse she could see a pleasure over her dilemma which made her yearn to inflict punishment upon him that would cause him to ask for mercy. His demeanor had said plainly that if she wished to have the marriage set aside all well and good—he would offer no objection. But neither would he take the initiative. Decidedly, it was a matter in which she should consult her own desires.
It was late in the afternoon when she rode up to the Double R corral gates and was met there by her father and Duncan. Langford had been
worried, he said, and was much concerned over her appearance. In the presence of Duncan Sheila told him the story of her danger and subsequent rescue by Dakota and she saw his eyes narrow with a strange light.
“Dakota!” he said. “Isn’t that the chap who shot that half-breed over in Lazette the day I came?”
To Sheila’s nod he ejaculated: “He’s a trump!”
“He is a brute!” As the words escaped her lips—she had not meant to utter them—Sheila caught a glint in Duncan’s eyes which told her that she had echoed the latter’s sentiments, and she felt almost like retracting the charge. She had to bite her lips to resist the impulse.
“A brute, eh?” laughed Langford. “It strikes me that I wouldn’t so characterize a man who had saved my life. The chances are that after saving you he didn’t seem delighted enough, or he didn’t smile to suit you, or——”
“He ain’t so awful much of a man,” remarked Duncan disparagingly.
Langford turned and looked at Duncan with a comprehending smile. “Evidently you owe Dakota nothing, my dear Duncan,” he said.
The latter’s face darkened, and with Sheila listening he told the story of the calf deal, which had indirectly brought about the death of Blanca.
“For a long time we had suspected Texas Blanca of rustling,” said Duncan, “but we couldn’t catch him with the goods. Five years ago, after the spring round-up, I branded a bunch of calves with a secret mark, and then we rode sign on Blanca.
“We had him then, for the calves disappeared and some of the boys found some of them in Blanca’s corral, but we delayed, hoping he would run off more, and while we were waiting he sold out to Dakota. We didn’t know that at the time; didn’t find it out until we went over to take Blanca and found Dakota living in his cabin. He had a bill of sale from Blanca all right, showing that he’d bought the calves from him. It looked regular, but we had our doubts, and Dakota and me came pretty near having a run-in. If the boys hadn’t interfered——”
He hesitated and looked at Sheila, and as her gaze met his steadily his eyes wavered and a slow red came into his face, for the recollection of what had actually occurred at the meeting between him and Dakota was not pleasant, and since that day Duncan had many times heard the word “Yellow” spoken in connection with his name—which meant that he lacked courage.
“So he wasn’t a rustler, after all?” said Sheila pleasantly. For some reason which she could not entirely explain, she suspected that Duncan had left many things out of his story of his clash with Dakota.
“Well, no,” admitted Duncan grudgingly.
Sheila was surprised at the satisfaction she felt over this admission. Perhaps Duncan read her face as she had read his, for he frowned.
“Him and Blanca framed up—making believe that Blanca had sold him the Star brand,” he said venomously.
“I don’t believe it!” Sheila’s eyes met Duncan’s and the latter’s wavered. She was not certain which gave her the thrill she felt—her defense of Dakota or Duncan’s bitter rage over the exhibition of that defense.
“He doesn’t appear to me to be the sort of man who would steal cows,” she said with a smile which made Duncan’s teeth show. “Although,” she continued significantly, “it does seem that he is the sort of man I would not care to trifle with—if I were a man. You told me yourself, if you remember, that you were not taking any chances with him. And now you accuse him. If I were you,” she warned, “I would be more careful—I would keep from saying things which I could not prove.”
“Meaning that I’m afraid of him, I reckon?” sneered Duncan.
Sheila looked at him, her eyes alight with mischief. That day on the edge of the butte overlooking the river, when Duncan had talked about Dakota, she had detected in his manner an inclination to belittle the latter; several times since then she had heard him speak venomously of him, and she had suspected that all was not smooth between them. And now since Duncan had related the story of the calf incident she was certain that the relations between the two men were strained to the point of open rupture. Duncan had bothered her, had annoyed her with his attentions, had adopted toward her an air of easy familiarity, which she had deeply resented, and she yearned to humiliate him deeply.
“Afraid?” She appeared to hesitate. “Well, no,” she said, surveying him with an appraising eye in which the mischief was partly concealed, “I do not believe that you are afraid. Perhaps you are merely careful where he is concerned. But I am certain that even if you were afraid of him you would not refuse to take his pony back. I promised to send it back, you know.”
A deep red suddenly suffused Duncan’s face. A sharp, savage gleam in his eyes—which Sheila met with a disarming smile—convinced her that he was aware of her object. She saw also that he did not intend to allow her to force him to perform the service.
He bowed and regarded her with a shallow smile.
“I will have one of the boys take the pony over to him the first thing in the morning,” he said.
Sheila smiled sweetly. “Please don’t bother,” she said. “I wouldn’t think of allowing one of the men to take the pony back. Perhaps I shall decide to ride over that way myself. I should not care to have you meet Dakota if you are afraid of him.”
Her rippling laugh caused the red in Duncan’s face to deepen, but she gave him no time to reply, for directly she had spoken she turned and walked toward the ranchhouse. Both Duncan and Langford watched her until she had vanished, and then Langford turned to Duncan.
“What on earth have you done to her?” he questioned.
But Duncan was savagely pulling the saddle from Dakota’s pony and did not answer.
Sheila really had no expectation of prevailing upon Duncan to return Dakota’s horse, and had she anticipated that the manager would accept her challenge she would not have given it, for after thinking over the incident of her rescue she had come to the conclusion that she had not treated Dakota fairly, and by personally taking his horse to him she would have an opportunity to proffer her tardy thanks for his service. She did not revert to the subject of the animal’s return during the evening meal, however, nor after it when she and her father and Duncan sat on the gallery of the ranchhouse enjoying the cool of the night breezes.
After breakfast on the following morning she was standing near the windmill, watching the long arms travel lazily in their wide circles, when she saw Duncan riding away from the ranchhouse, leading Dakota’s pony. She started toward the corral gates, intending to call to him to return, but thought better of the impulse and hailed him tauntingly instead:
“Please tell him to accept my thanks,” she said, and Duncan turned his head, bowed mockingly, and continued on his way.
Half an hour after the departure of Duncan Sheila pressed a loafing puncher into service and directed him to rope a gentle pony for her. After the puncher had secured a suitable appearing animal and had placed a saddle and bridle on it, she compelled him to ride it several times around the confines of the pasture to make certain that it would not “buck.” Then she mounted and rode up the river.
Duncan was not particularly pleased over his errand, and many times while he rode the trail toward Dakota’s cabin his lips moved from his teeth in a snarl. Following the incident of the theft of the calves by Blanca, Duncan had taken pains to insinuate publicly that Dakota’s purchase of the Star from the half-breed had been a clever ruse to avert suspicion, intimating that a partnership existed between Dakota and Blanca. The shooting of Blanca by Dakota, however, had exploded this charge, and until now Duncan had been very careful to avoid a meeting with the man whom he had maligned.
During the night he had given much thought to the circumstance which was sending him to meet his enemy. He had a suspicion that Sheila had purposely taunted him with cowardice—that in all probability Dakota himself had suggested the plan in order to force a meeting with him. This thought suggested another. Sheila’s defense of Dakota seemed to indicate that a certain intimacy existed between them. He c
onsidered this carefully, and with a throb of jealously concluded that Dakota’s action in saving Sheila’s life would very likely pave the way for a closer acquaintance.
Certainly, in spite of Sheila’s remark about Dakota being a “brute,” she had betrayed evidence of admiration for the man. In that case her veiled allusions to his own fear of meeting Dakota were very likely founded on something which Dakota had told her, and certainly anything which Dakota might have said about him would not be complimentary. Therefore his rage against both Sheila and his enemy was bitter when he finally rode up to the door of the latter’s cabin.
There was hope in his heart that Dakota might prove to be absent, and when, after calling once and receiving no answer, he dismounted and hitched Dakota’s pony to a rail of the corral fence, there was a smile of satisfaction on his face.
He took plenty of time to hitch the pony; he even lingered at the corral bars, leaning on them to watch several steers which were inside the enclosure. He found time, too, in spite of his fear of his enemy, to sneer over the evidences of prosperity which were on every hand. He was congratulating himself on his good fortune in reaching Dakota’s cabin during a time when the latter was absent, when he heard a slight sound behind him. He turned rapidly, to see Dakota standing in the doorway of the cabin, watching him with cold, level eyes, one of his heavy six-shooters in hand.
Duncan’s face went slowly pale. He did not speak at once and when he did he was surprised at his hoarseness.
“I’ve brought your cayuse back,” he said finally.
“So I see,” returned Dakota. His eyes glinted with a cold humor, though they were still regarding Duncan with an alertness which the other could not mistake.
“So I see,” repeated Dakota. His slow drawl was in evidence again. “I don’t recollect, though, that I sent word to have you bring him back.”
“I wasn’t tickled to death over the job,” returned Duncan.
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