The Trail to Yesterday

She was silent; she did not offer to defend Dakota, for in her thoughts still lingered a recollection of the scene of the shooting in Lazette. And when she considered her father’s distant manner toward her and Ben Doubler’s grave prediction of trouble, it seemed that perhaps Duncan was right. Yet in spite of the shooting of Blanca and the evil light which was now thrown on Dakota through Duncan’s deductions, she felt confident that Dakota would not become a party to a plot in which the murder of a man was deliberately planned. He had wronged her and he had killed a man, but at the quicksand crossing that day – despite the rage which had been in her heart against him – she had studied him and had become convinced that behind his recklessness, back of the questionable impulses that seemed at times to move him, there lurked qualities which were wholly admirable, and which could be felt by anyone who came in contact with him. Certainly those qualities which she had seen had not been undiscovered by Duncan – and others.

She remembered now that on a former occasion the manager had practically admitted his fear of Dakota, and then there was his conduct on that day when she had asked him to return Dakota’s pony. Duncan’s manner then had seemed to indicate that he feared Dakota – at the least did not like him. Ben Doubler had given her a different version of the trouble between Dakota and Duncan; how Duncan had accused Dakota of stealing the Double R calves, and how in the presence of Duncan’s own men Dakota had forced him to apologize. Taken altogether, it seemed that Duncan’s present suspicions were the result of his dislike, or fear, of Dakota. Convinced of this, her eyes flashed with contempt when she looked at the manager.

“I believe you are lying,” she said coldly. “You don’t like Dakota. But I have faith in him – in his manhood. I don’t believe that any man who has the courage to force another man to apologize to him in the face of great odds, would, or could, be so entirely base as to plan to murder a poor, unoffending old man in cold blood. Perhaps you are not lying,” she concluded with straight lips, “but the very least that can be said for you is that you have a lurid imagination!”

In Duncan’s gleaming, shifting eyes, in the lips which were tensed over his teeth in a snarl, she could see the bitterness that was in his heart over the incident to which she had just referred.

“Wait,” he said smiling evilly. “You’ll know more about Dakota before long.”

Sheila rose and walked to her pony, mounting the animal and riding slowly away from the river. She did not see the queer smile on Duncan’s face as she rode, but looking back at the distance of a hundred yards, she saw that he did not intend to follow her. He was still sitting where she had left him, his back to her, his face turned toward the plains which spread away toward Dakota’s cabin, twenty miles down the river.

CHAPTER XI

A 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 Duncan knew 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’s reticence 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, turning his 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’s suspicions 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, he watched 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 latter permitted 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 is trying 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 Doubler under 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 hand significantly. “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.