"I have heard," continued Langford slowly, "that there are men in this country who do not hesitate to kill other people for money."
"Meaning that there are road agents and such?" questioned Duncan.
"Naturally, that particular kind would be included. I meant, however another kind—I believe they are called ‘bad men,’ are they not? Men who kill for hire?”
Duncan cast a furtive glance at Langford out of the corners of his eyes, but could draw no conclusions concerning the latter’s motive in asking the question from the expression of his face.
“Such men drift in occasionally,” he returned, convinced that Langford’s curiosity was merely casual—as Langford desired him to consider it. “Usually, though, they don’t stay long.”
“I suppose there are none of that breed around here—in Lazette, for instance. It struck me that Dakota was extraordinarily handy with a gun.”
He puffed long at his cigar and saw that, though Duncan did not answer, his face had grown suddenly dark with passion, as it always did when Dakota’s name was mentioned. Langford smiled subtly. “I suppose,” he said, “that Dakota might be called a bad man.”
Duncan’s eyes flashed with venom. “I reckon Dakota’s nothing but a damned sneak!” he said, not being able to conceal the bitterness in his voice.
Langford did not allow his smile to be seen; he had not forgotten the incident of the returning of Dakota’s horse by Duncan.
“He’s a dead shot, though,” he suggested.
“I’m allowing that,” grudgingly returned Duncan. “And,” he added, “it’s been hinted that all his shooting scrapes haven’t been on the level.”
“He is not straight, then?” said Langford, his eyes gleaming. “Not ‘square,’ as you say in this country?”
“I reckon there ain’t nothing square about him,” returned Duncan, glad of an opportunity to defame his enemy.
Again Langford did not allow Duncan to see his smile, and he deftly directed the current of the conversation into other channels.
He rode out again that day, taking the river trail and passing Dakota’s cabin, but Dakota himself was nowhere to be seen and at dusk Langford returned to the Double R. During the evening meal he enveloped himself with a silence which proved impenetrable. He retired early, to Duncan’s surprise, and the next morning, without announcing his plans to anyone, saddled his pony and rode away toward the river trail.
He took a circuitous route to reach it, riding slowly, with the air and manner of a man who is thinking deep thoughts, smiling much, though many times grimly.
“Dakota isn’t square,” he said once aloud during one of his grim smiles.
When he came to the quicksand crossing he halted and examined the earth in the vicinity, smiling more broadly at the marks and hoof prints in the hard sand near the water’s edge. Then he rode on.
Two or three miles from the quicksand crossing he came suddenly upon Dakota’s cabin. Dakota himself was repairing a saddle in the shade of the cabin wall, and for all that Langford could see he was entirely unaware of his approach. He saw Dakota look up when he passed the corral gate, and when he reached a point about twenty feet distant he observed a faint smile on Dakota’s face.
“Howdy, stranger,” came the latter’s voice.
“How are you, my friend?” greeted Langford easily.
It was not hard for Langford to adopt an air of familiarity toward the man who had figured prominently in his thoughts during a great many of the previous twenty-four hours. He dismounted from his pony, hitched the animal to a rail of the corral fence, and approached Dakota, standing in front of him and looking down at him with a smile.
Dakota apparently took little interest in his visitor, for keeping his seat on the box upon which he had been sitting when Langford had first caught sight of him, he continued to give his attention to the saddle.
“I’m from the Double R,” offered Langford, feeling slightly less important, conscious that somehow the familiarity that he had felt existed between them a moment before was a singularly fleeting thing.
“I noticed that,” responded Dakota, still busy with his saddle.
“How?”
“I reckon that you’ve forgot that your horse has got a brand on him?”
“You’ve got keen eyes, my friend,” laughed Langford.
“Have I?” Dakota had not looked at Langford until now, and as he spoke he raised his head and gazed fairly into the latter’s eyes.
For a moment neither man moved or spoke. It seemed to Langford, as he gazed into the steely, fathomless blue of the eyes which held his—held them, for now as he looked it was the first time in his life that his gaze had met a fellow being’s steadily—that he could see there an unmistakable, grim mockery. And that was all, for whatever other emotions Dakota felt, they were invisible to Langford. He drew a deep breath, suddenly aware that before him was a man exactly like himself in one respect—skilled in the art of keeping his emotions to himself. Langford had not met many such men; usually he was able to see clear through a man—able to read him. But this man he could not read. He was puzzled and embarrassed over the discovery. His gaze finally wavered; he looked away.
“A man don’t have to have such terribly keen eyes to be able to see a brand,” observed Dakota, drawling; “especially when he’s passed a whole lot of his time looking at brands.”
“That’s so,” agreed Langford. “I suppose you have been a cowboy a long time.”
“Longer than you’ve been a ranch owner.”
Langford looked quickly at Dakota, for now the latter was again busy with his saddle, but he could detect no sarcasm in his face, though plainly there had been a subtle quality of it in his voice.
“Then you know me?” he said.
“No. I don’t know you. I’ve put two and two together. I heard that Duncan was selling the Double R. I’ve seen your daughter. And you ride up here on a Double R horse. There ain’t no other strangers in the country. Then, of course, you’re the new owner of the Double R.”
Langford looked again at the inscrutable face of the man beside him and felt a sudden deep respect for him. Even if he had not witnessed the killing of Texas Blanca that day in Lazette he would have known the man before him for what he was—a quiet, cool, self-possessed man of much experience, who could not be trifled with.
“That’s right,” he admitted; “I am the new owner of the Double R. And I have come, my friend, to thank you for what you did for my daughter.”
“She told you, then?” Dakota’s gaze was again on Langford, an odd light in his eyes.
“Certainly.”
“She’s told you what?”
“How you rescued her from the quicksand.”
Dakota’s gaze was still on his visitor, quiet, intent. “She tell you anything else?” he questioned slowly.
“Why, what else is there to tell?” There was sincere curiosity in Langford’s voice, for Sheila had always told him everything that happened to her. It was not like her to keep anything secret from him.
“Did she tell you that she forgot to thank me for saving her?” There was a queer smile on Dakota’s lips, a peculiar, pleased glint in his eyes.
“No, she neglected to relate that,” returned Langford.
“Forgot it. That’s what I thought. Do you think she forgot it intentionally?”
“It wouldn’t be like her.”
“Of course not. And so she’s sent you over to thank me! Tell her no thanks are due. And if she inquires, tell her that the pony didn’t make a sound or a struggle when I shot him.”
“As it happens, she didn’t send me,” smiled Langford. “There was the excitement, of course, and I presume she forgot to thank you—possibly will ride over herself some day to thank you personally. But she didn’t send me—I came without her knowledge.”
“To thank me—for her?”
“No.”
“You’re visiting then. Or maybe just riding around to look at your range. Sit down.�
�� He motioned to another box that stood near the door of the cabin.
Once Langford became seated Dakota again busied himself with the saddle, ignoring his visitor. Langford shifted uneasily on the box, for the seat was not to his liking and the attitude of his host was most peculiar. He fell silent also and kicked gravely and absently into a hummock with the toe of his boot.
Singularly enough, a plan which had taken form in his mind since Doubler had shot at him seemed suddenly to have many defects, though until now it had seemed complete enough. Out of the jumble of thoughts that had rioted in his brain after his departure from Two Forks crossing had risen a conviction. Doubler was a danger and a menace and must be removed. And there was no legal way to remove him, for though he had not proved on his land he was entitled to it to the limit set by the law, or until his death.
Langford’s purpose in questioning Duncan had been to learn of the presence of someone in the country who would not be averse to removing Doubler. The possibility of disposing of the nester in this manner had been before him ever since he had learned of his presence on the Two Forks. He had not been surprised when Duncan had mentioned Dakota as being a probable tool, for he had thought over the occurrence of the shooting in Lazette many times, and had been much impressed with Dakota’s coolness and his satanic cleverness with a six-shooter, and it seemed that it would be a simple matter to arrange with him for the removal of Doubler. Yes, it had seemed simple enough when he had planned it, and when Duncan had told him that Dakota was not on the “square.”
But now, looking covertly at the man, he found that he was not quite certain in spite of what Duncan had said. He had mentally worked out his plan of approaching Dakota many times. But now the defect in the plan seemed to be that he had misjudged his man—that Duncan had misjudged him. Plainly he would make a mistake were he to approach Dakota with a bold request for the removing of the nester—he must clothe it. Thus, after a long silence, he started obliquely.
“My friend,” he said, “it must be lonesome out here for you.”
“Not so lonesome.”
“It’s a big country, though—lots of land. There seems to be no end to it.”
“That’s right, there’s plenty of it. I reckon the Lord wasn’t in a stingy mood when he made it.”
“Yet there seem to be restrictions even here.”
“Restrictions?”
“Yes,” laughed Langford; “restrictions on a man’s desires.”
Dakota looked at him with a saturnine smile. “Restrictions on a man’s desires,” he repeated slowly. Then he laughed mirthlessly. “Some people wouldn’t be satisfied if they owned the whole earth. They’d be wanting the sun, moon, and stars thrown in for good measure.”
Langford laughed again. “That’s human nature, my friend,” he contended, determined not to be forced to digress from the main subject. “Have you got everything you want? Isn’t there anything besides what you already have that appeals to you? Have you no ambition?”
“There are plenty of things I want. Maybe I’d be modest, though, if I had ambition. We all want a lot of things which we can’t get.”
“Correct, my friend. Some of us want money, others desire happiness, still others are after something else. As you say, some of use are never satisfied—the ambitious ones.”
“Then you are ambitious?”
“You’ve struck it,” smiled Langford.
Dakota caught his gaze, and there was a smile of derision on his lips. “What particular thing are you looking for?” he questioned.
“Land.”
“Mine?” Dakota’s lips curled a little. “Doubler’s, then,” he added as Langford shook his head with an emphatic, negative motion. “He’s the only man who’s got land near yours.”
“That’s correct,” admitted Langford; “I want Doubler’s land.”
There was a silence for a few minutes, while Langford watched Dakota furtively as the latter gave his entire attention to his saddle.
“You’ve got all the rest of those things you spoke about, then—happiness, money, and such?” said Dakota presently, in a low voice.
“Yes. I am pretty well off there.”
“All you want is Doubler’s land?” He stopped working with the saddle and looked at Langford. “I reckon, if you’ve got all those things, that you ought to be satisfied. But of course you ain’t satisfied, or you wouldn’t want Doubler’s land. Did you offer to buy it?”
“I asked him to name his own figure, and he wouldn’t sell—wouldn’t even consider selling, though I offered him what I considered a fair price.”
“That’s odd, isn’t it? You’d naturally think that money could buy everything. But maybe Doubler has found happiness on his land. You couldn’t buy that from a man, you know. I suppose you care a lot about Doubler’s happiness—you wouldn’t want to take his land if you knew he was happy on it? Or don’t it make any difference to you?” There was faint sarcasm in his voice.
“As it happens,” said Langford, reddening a little, “this isn’t a question of happiness—it is merely business. Doubler’s land adjoins mine. I want to extend my holdings. I can’t extend in Doubler’s direction because Doubler controls the water rights. Therefore it is my business to see that Doubler gets out.”
“And sentiment has got no place in business. That right? It doesn’t make any difference to you that Doubler doesn’t want to sell; you want his land, and that settles it—so far as you are concerned. You don’t consider Doubler’s feelings. Well, I don’t know but that’s the way things are run—one man keeps what he can and another gets what he is able to get. What are you figuring to do about Doubler?”
Langford glanced at Dakota with an oily, significant smile. “I am new to the country, my friend,” he said. “I don’t know anything about the usual custom employed to force a man to give up his land. Could you suggest anything?”
Dakota deliberately took up a wax-end, rolled it, and squinted his eyes as he forced the end of the thread through the eye of the needle which he held in the other hand. So far as Langford could see he exhibited no emotion whatever; his face was inscrutable; he might not have heard.
Yet Langford knew that he had heard; was certain that he grasped the full meaning of the question; probably felt some emotion over it, and was masking it by appearing to busy himself with the saddle. Langford’s respect for him grew and he wisely kept silent, knowing that in time Dakota would answer. But when the answer did come it was not the one that Langford expected. Dakota’s eyes met his in a level gaze.
“Why don’t you shoot him yourself?” he said, drawling his words a little.
“Not taking any chances?” Dakota’s voice was filled with a cold sarcasm as he continued, after an interval during which Langford kept a discreetly still tongue. “Your business principles don’t take you quite that far, eh? And so you’ve come over to get me to shoot him? Why didn’t you say so in the beginning—it would have saved all this time.” He laughed coldly.
“What makes you think that you could hire me to put Doubler out of business?”
“I saw you shoot Blanca,” said Langford. “And I sounded Duncan.” It did not disturb him to discover that Dakota had all along been aware of the object of his visit. It rather pleased him, in fact, to be given proof of the man’s discernment—it showed that he was deep and clever.
“You saw me shoot Blanca,” said Dakota with a strange smile, “and Duncan told you I was the man to put Doubler away. Those are my recommendations.” His voice was slightly ironical, almost concealing a slight harshness. “Did Duncan mention that he was a friend of mine?” he asked. “No?” His smile grew mocking. “Just merely mentioned that I was uncommonly clever in the art of getting people—undesirable people—out of the way. Don’t get the idea, though, because Duncan told you, that I make a business of shooting folks. I put Blanca out of the way because it was a question of him or me—I shot him to save my own hide. Shooting Doubler would be quite another proposition. Still——” He
looked at Langford, his eyes narrowing and smoldering with a mysterious fire.
It seemed that he was inviting Langford to make a proposal, and the latter smiled evilly. “Still,” he said, repeating Dakota’s word with a significant inflection, “you don’t refuse to listen to me. It would be worth a thousand dollars to me to have Doubler out of the way,” he added.
It was out now, and Langford sat silent while Dakota gazed into the distance that reached toward the nester’s cabin. Langford watched Dakota closely, but there was an absolute lack of expression in the latter’s face.
“How are you offering to pay the thousand?” questioned Dakota. “And when?”
“In cash, when Doubler isn’t here any more.”
Dakota looked up at him, his face a mask of immobility. “That sounds all right,” he said, with slow emphasis. “I reckon you’ll put it in writing?”
Langford’s eyes narrowed; he smiled craftily. “That,” he said smoothly, “would put me in your power. I have never been accused of being a fool by any of the men with whom I have done business. Don’t you think that at my age it is a little late to start?”
“I reckon we don’t make any deal,” laughed Dakota shortly.
“We’ll arrange it this way,” suggested Langford. “Doubler is not the only man I want to get rid of. I want your land, too. But”—he added as he saw Dakota’s lips harden—“I don’t purpose to proceed against you in the manner I am dealing with Doubler. I flatter myself that I know men quite well. I’d like to buy your land. What would be a fair price for it?”
“Five thousand.”
“We’ll put it this way, then,” said Langford, briskly and silkily. “I will give you an agreement worded in this manner: ‘One month after date 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.’” He looked at Dakota with a significant smile. “You see,” he said, “that I am not particularly desirous of being instrumental in causing Doubler’s death—you have misjudged me.”
The Trail to Yesterday Page 10