Now that his first surprise was over and Dakota had betrayed no sign of resenting his visit, Duncan felt easier. There had been a slight sneer in his voice when he answered.
“That isn’t surprising,” returned Dakota. “There never was a time when you were tickled a heap to stick your nose into my affairs.” His smile froze Duncan.
“I ain’t looking for trouble,” said the latter, with a perfect knowledge of Dakota’s peculiar expression.
“Then why did you come over here? I reckon there wasn’t anyone else to send my horse over by?” said Dakota, his voice coming with a truculent snap.
Duncan flushed. “Sheila Langford sent me,” he admitted reluctantly.
Dakota’s eyes lighted with incredulity. “I reckon you’re a liar,” he said with cold emphasis.
Duncan’s gaze went to the pistol in Dakota’s hand and his lips curled. He knew that he was perfectly safe so long as he made no hostile move, for in spite of his derogatory remarks about the man he was aware that he never used his weapons without provocation.
Therefore he forced a smile. “You ain’t running no Blanca deal on me,” he said. “Calling me a liar ain’t going to get no rise out of me. But she sent me, just the same. I reckon, liking you as I do, that I ought to be glad she gave me the chance to come over and see you, but I ain’t. We was gassing about you and she told me I was scared to bring your cayuse back.” He laughed mirthlessly. “I reckon I’ve proved that I ain’t any scared.”
“No,” said Dakota with a cold grin, “you ain’t scared. You know that there won’t be any shooting done unless you get careless with that gun you carry.” His eyes were filled with a whimsical humor, but they were still alert, as he watched Duncan’s face for signs of insincerity. He saw no such signs and his expression became mocking. “So she sent you over here?” he said, and his was the voice of one enemy enjoying some subtle advantage over another. “Why, I reckon you’re a kind of handy man to have around—sort of ladies’ man—running errands and such.”
Duncan’s face bloated with anger, but he dared not show open resentment. For behind Dakota’s soft voice and gentle, over-polite manner, he felt the deep rancor for whose existence he alone was responsible. So, trying to hold his passions in check, he grinned at Dakota, significantly, insinuatingly, unable finally to keep the bitter hatred and jealousy out of his voice. For in the evilness of his mind he had drawn many imaginary pictures of what had occurred between Dakota and Sheila immediately after her rescue by the latter.
“I reckon,” he said hoarsely, “that you take a heap of interest in Sheila.”
“That’s part of your business, I suppose?” Dakota’s voice was suddenly hard.
Duncan had decided to steer carefully away from any trouble with Dakota; he had even decided that as a measure for his own safety he must say nothing which would be likely to arouse Dakota’s anger, but the jealous thoughts in his mind had finally gotten the better of prudence, and the menace in Dakota’s voice angered him.
“I reckon,” he said with a sneer, “that I ain’t as much interested in her as you are.”
He started back, his lips tightening over his teeth in a snarl of alarm and fear, for Dakota had stepped down from the doorway and was at his side, his eyes narrowed with cold wrath.
“Meaning what?” he demanded harshly, sharply, for he imagined that perhaps Sheila had told of her marriage to him, and the thought that Duncan should have been selected by her to share the secret maddened him.
“Meaning what, you damned coyote?” he insisted, stepping closer to Duncan.
“Meaning that she ain’t admiring you for nothing,” flared Duncan incautiously, his jealously overcoming his better judgment. “Meaning that any woman which has been pulled out of a quicksand like you pulled her out might be expected to favor you with——”
The sunlight flashed on Dakota’s pistol as it leaped from his right hand to his left and was bolstered with a jerk. And with the same motion his clenched fist was jammed with savage force against Duncan’s lips, cutting short the slanderous words and sending him in a heap to the dust of the corral yard.
With a cry of rage Duncan grasped for his pistol and drew it out, but the hand holding it was stamped violently into the earth, the arm bent and twisted until the fingers released the weapon. And then Dakota stood over him, looking down at him with narrowed, chilling eyes, his face white and hard, his anger gone as quickly as it had come. He said no word while Duncan clambered awkwardly to his feet and mounted his horse.
DUNCAN GRASPED FOR HIS PISTOL, BUT THE HAND HOLDING IT WAS STAMPED VIOLENTLY INTO THE EARTH.
“I’m telling you something,” he said quietly, as Duncan lifted the reins with his uninjured hand, turning his horse to depart. “You and me have never hitched very well and there isn’t any chance of us ever falling on each other’s necks. I think what I’ve done to you about squares us for that calf deal. I’ve been yearning to hand you something before you left the country, but I didn’t expect you’d give me the chance in just this way. I’m warning you that the next time you shove your coyote nose into my business I’ll muss it up some. That applies to Miss Sheila. If I ever hear of you getting her name on your dirty tongue again I’ll tear you apart. I reckon that’s all.” He drew his pistol and balanced it in his right hand. “It makes me feel some reckless to be talking to you,” he added, a glint of intolerance in his eyes. “You’d better travel before I change my mind.
“You don’t need to mention this to Miss Sheila,” he said mockingly, as Duncan urged his horse away from the corral gate; “just let her go on—thinking you’re a man.”
* * *
CHAPTER IX
STRICTLY BUSINESS
For two or three quiet weeks Sheila did not see much of Duncan, and her father bothered her very little. Several nights on the gallery of the ranchhouse she had seen the two men sitting very close together, and on one or two occasions she had overheard scraps of conversation carried on between them in which Doubler’s name was mentioned.
She remembered Doubler as one of the nesters whom Duncan had mentioned that day on the butte overlooking the river, and though her father and Duncan had a perfect right to discuss him, it seemed to Sheila that there had been a serious note in their voices when they had mentioned his name.
She had become acquainted with Doubler. Since discontinuing her rides with her father and Duncan she had gone out every day alone, though she was careful to avoid any crossing in the river which looked the least suspicious. Such crossings as she could ford were few, and for that reason she was forced to ride most of the time to the Two Forks, where there was an excellent shallow, with long slopes sweeping up to the plains on both sides.
The first time that she crossed at the Two Forks she had come upon a small adobe cabin situated a few hundred yards back from the water’s edge.
Sheila would have fled from the vicinity, for there was still fresh in her mind a recollection of another cabin in which she had once passed many fearsome hours, but while she hesitated, on the verge of flight, Doubler came to the door, and when she saw that he was an old man with a kindly face, much of her perturbation vanished, and she remained to talk.
Doubler was hospitable and solicitous and supplied her with some soda biscuit and fresh beef and a tin cup full of delicious coffee. She refused to enter the cabin, and so he brought the food out to her and sat on the step beside her while she ate, betraying much interest in her.
Doubler asked no questions regarding her identity, and Sheila marveled much over this. But when she prepared to depart she understood why he had betrayed no curiosity concerning her.
“I reckon you’re that Langford girl?” he said.
“Yes,” returned Sheila, wondering. “I am Sheila Langford. But who told you? I was not aware that anyone around here knew me—except the people at the Double R.”
“Dakota told me.”
“Oh!” A chill came into her voice which instantly attracted Doubler’s attention. He
looked at her with an odd smile.
“You know Dakota?”
“I have met him.”
“You don’t like him, I reckon?”
“No.”
“Well, now,” commented Doubler, “I reckon I’ve got things mixed. But from Dakota’s talk I took it that you an’ him was pretty thick.”
“His talk?” Sheila remembered Dakota’s statement that he had told no one of their relations. So he had been talking, after all! She was not surprised, but she was undeniably angry and embarrassed to think that perhaps all the time she had been talking to Doubler he might have been appraising her on the basis of her adventure with Dakota.
“What has he been saying?” she demanded coldly.
“Nothing, ma’am. That is, nothin’ which any man wouldn’t say about you, once he’d seen you an’ talked some to you.” Doubler surveyed her with sparkling, appreciative eyes.
“As a rule it don’t pay to go to gossipin’ with anyone—least of all with a woman. But I reckon I can tell you what he said, ma’am, without you gettin’ awful mad. He didn’t say nothin’ except that he’d taken an awful shine to you. An’ he’d likely make things mighty unpleasant for me if he’d find that I’d told you that.”
“Shine?” There was a world of scornful wonder in Sheila’s voice. “Would you mind telling me what ‘taking a shine’ to anyone means?”
“Why, no, I reckon I don’t mind, ma’am, seein’ that it’s you. ‘Takin’ a shine’ to you means that he’s some stuck on you—likes you, that is. An’ I reckon you can’t blame him much for doin’ that.”
Sheila did not answer, though a sudden flood of red to her face made the use of mere words entirely unnecessary so far as Doubler was concerned, for he smiled wisely.
Sheila fled down the trail toward the crossing without a parting word to Doubler, leaving him standing at the door squinting with amusement at her. But on the morrow she had returned, determined to discover something of Dakota, to learn something of his history since coming into the country, or at the least to see if she could not induce Doubler to disclose his real name.
She was unsuccessful. Dakota had never taken Doubler into his confidence, and the information that she succeeded in worming from the nester was not more than he had already volunteered, or than Duncan had given her that day when they were seated on the edge of the butte overlooking the river.
She was convinced that Doubler had told her all he knew, and she wondered at the custom which permitted friendship on the basis of such meager knowledge.
She quickly grew to like Doubler. He showed a fatherly interest in her and always greeted her with a smile when during her rides she came to his cabin, or when she met him, as she did frequently, on the open range. His manner toward her was always cordial, and he seemed not to have a care. One morning, however, she rode up to the door of the cabin and Doubler’s face was serious. He stood quietly in the doorway, watching her as she sat on her pony, not offering to assist her down as he usually did, and she knew instantly that something had happened to disturb his peace of mind. He did not invite her into the cabin.
“Ma’am,” he said, and Sheila detected regret in his voice, “I’m a heap sorry, but of course you won’t be comin’ here any more.”
“I don’t see why!” returned Sheila in surprise. “I like to come here. But, of course, if you don’t want me——”
“It ain’t that,” he interrupted quickly. “I thought you knowed. But you don’t, of course, or you wouldn’t have come just now. Your dad an’ Duncan was over to see me yesterday.”
“I didn’t know that,” returned Sheila. “But I can’t see why a visit from father should——”
“He’s wantin’ me to pull my freight out of the country,” said Doubler “An’ of course I ain’t doin’ it. Therefore I’m severin’ diplomatic relations with your family.”
“I don’t see why——” began Sheila, puzzled to understand why a mere visit on her father’s part should have the result Doubler had announced.
“Of course you don’t,” Doubler told her. “You’re a woman an’ don’t understand such things. But in this country when a little owner has got some land which a big owner wants—an’ can’t buy—there’s likely to be trouble. I ain’t proved on my land yet, an’ if your dad can run me off he’ll be pretty apt to grab it somehow or other. But he ain’t runnin’ me off an’ so there’s a heap of trouble comin’. An’ of course while there’s trouble you won’t be comin’ here any more after this. Likely your dad wouldn’t have it. I’m sorry, too. I like you a lot.”
“I don’t see why father should want your land,” Sheila told him gravely, much disturbed at this unexpected development. “There is plenty of land here.” She swept a hand toward the plains.
“There ain’t enough for some people,” grimly laughed Doubler. “Some people is hawgs—askin’ your pardon, ma’am. I wasn’t expectin’ your father to be like that, after seein’ you. I was hopin’ that we’d be able to get along. I’ve had some trouble with Duncan—not very long ago. Once I had to speak pretty plain to him. I expect he’s been fillin’ your dad up.”
“I’ll see father about it.” Sheila’s face was red with a pained embarrassment. “I am sure that father will not make any trouble for you—he isn’t that kind of man.”
“He’s that kind of a man, sure enough,” said Doubler gravely. “I reckon I’ve got him sized up right. He ain’t in no way like you, ma’am. If you hadn’t told me I reckon I wouldn’t have knowed he is your father.”
“He is my stepfather,” admitted Sheila.
“I knowed it!” declared Doubler. “I’m too old to be fooled by what I see in a man’s face—or in a woman’s face either. Don’t you go to say anything about this business to him. He’s bound to try to run me off. He done said so. I don’t know when I ever heard a man talk any meaner than he did. Said that if I didn’t sell he’d make things mighty unpleasant for me. An’ so I reckon there’s goin’ to be some fun.”
Sheila did not remain long at Doubler’s cabin, for her mind was in a riot of rage and resentment against her father for his attitude toward Doubler, and she cut short her ride in the hope of being able to have a talk with him before he left the ranchhouse. But when she returned she was told by Duncan’s sister that Langford had departed some hours before—alone. He had not mentioned his destination.
* * *
Ben Doubler had omitted an important detail from his story of Langford’s visit to his cabin, for he had not cared to frighten Sheila unnecessarily. But as Langford rode toward Doubler’s cabin this morning his thoughts persisted in dwelling on Doubler’s final words to him, spoken as he and Duncan had turned their horses to leave the nester’s cabin the day before:
“If it’s goin’ to be war, Langford, it ain’t goin’ to be no pussy-kitten affair. I’m warnin’ you to stay away from the Two Forks. If I ketch you or any of your men nosin’ around there I’m goin’ to bore you some rapid.”
Langford had sneered then, and he sneered now as he rode toward the river, for he had no doubt that Doubler had uttered the threat in a spirit of bravado. Of course, he told himself as he rode, the man was forced to say something, but the idea of him being serious in the threat to shoot any one who came to the Two Forks was ridiculous.
All his life Langford had heard threats from the lips of his victims, and thus far they had remained only threats. He had determined to see Doubler this morning, for he had noticed that the nester had appeared ill at ease in the presence of Duncan, and he anticipated that alone he could force him to accept terms. When he reached the crossing at Two Forks he urged his pony through its waters, his face wearing a confident smile.
There was an open stretch of grass land between the crossing and Doubler’s cabin, and when Langford urged his pony up the sloping bank of the river he saw the nester standing near the door of the cabin, watching. Langford was about to force his pony to a faster pace, when he saw Doubler raise a rifle to his shoulder. Still, he cont
inued to ride forward, but he pulled the pony up shortly when he saw the flame spurt from the muzzle of the rifle and heard the shrill hiss of the bullet as it passed dangerously near to him.
No words were needed, and neither man spoke any. Without stopping to give Doubler an opportunity to speak, Langford wheeled his pony, and with a white, scared face, bending low over the animal’s mane to escape any bullets which might follow the first, rapidly recrossed the river. Once on the crest of the hill on the opposite side he turned, and trembling with rage and fear, shook a clenched hand at Doubler. The latter’s reply was a strident laugh.
Langford returned to the ranchouse, riding slowly, though in his heart was a riot of rage and hatred against the nester. It was war, to be sure. But now that Doubler had shown in no unmistakable manner that he had not been trifling the day before, Langford was no longer in doubt as to the method he would have to employ in his attempt to gain possession of his land. Doubler, he felt, had made the choice.
The ride to the ranchhouse took long, but by the time Langford arrived there he had regained his composure, saying nothing to anyone concerning his adventure.
For three days he kept his own counsel, riding out alone, taciturn, giving much thought to the situation. Sheila had intended to speak to him regarding the trouble with Doubler, but his manner repulsed her and she kept silent, hoping that the mood would pass. However, the mood did not pass. Langford continued to ride out alone, maintaining a moody silence, sitting alone much with his own thoughts and allowing no one to break down the barrier of taciturnity which he had erected.
On the morning of the fifth day after his adventure with Doubler he was sitting on the ranchhouse gallery with Duncan, enjoying an after-breakfast cigar, when he said casually to the latter:
"I take it that folks in this country are mighty careless with their weapons."
Duncan grinned. "You might call it careless," he returned. "No doubt there are people—people who come out here from the East—who think that a man who carries a gun out here is careless with it. But I reckon that when a man draws a gun here he draws it with a pretty definite purpose."
The Trail to Yesterday Page 9