The Trail to Yesterday

by Seltzer, Charles Alden

  “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 his earnestness, 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 which seemed 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 XIII

  THE 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 be considered, 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 could for 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. One mile, 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 the pony’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 apparently had 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—shot him 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, though aware 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 s
aw 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 she mounted 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, abstractedly watched 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.