CHAPTER IX. 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 ranch house 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, although she was careful, to avoid any crossing in the river which looked the least suspicious. Such crossings, as she could forward, 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 over this. But when she prepared to depart, she understood why he had betrayed no curiosity concerning her. I reckon you're the 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've met him. You don't like him, I reckon? No. Well now, comment at Doubler, I reckon I've got things mixed, but from Dakota's talk I took it that you and him were 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 was he saying she demanded coldly?  He never surveyed her with sparkling appreciative eyes. Has ruled it don't pay to go gossiping with anyone, least of all with a woman, but I reckon I can tell you what he said, ma'am, without you getting awful mad. He didn't say nothing except that he had taken an awful shine to you, and he'd likely make things mighty unpleasant for me if he'd find that I told you that. Shine? It's a word 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, seeing that it's you.  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 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 that 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 meagre 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, and 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. Then he said, and Sheila detected regret in his voice. I'm a heap sorry, but of course you won't be coming 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 and 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 wanting me to pull my freight out of the country, said Doubler, and of course I ain't doing it. Therefore I'm severing 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.  But in this country, when a little owner has got some land, which a big owner wants and can't buy, there's likely to be trouble.  But he ain't running me off, and so there's a heap of trouble coming. And of course, while there's trouble, you won't be coming 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's plenty of land here. She slipped a hand towards the plains. Threw in enough for some people, grimly laughed Doubler. Some people lives hogs. Asking your pardon, ma'am. I wasn't expecting your father to be like that after seeing you. I was hoping 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 filling your dad up. I'll see father about it. Sheila's face was red with a pained embarrassment. I'm sure that father will not make any trouble for you. He isn't that kind of man. He's that kind of man sure enough, said Doubler gravely. I reckon I've got him sized up right.  If you hadn't told me, I reckon I wouldn't have known he was your father. He is my stepfather, admitted Sheila. I noted, 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, and so I reckon there's going 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 towards Doubler, and she cut shorter ride in the hope of being able to have a talk with him before he left the ranch house. 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. 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 Nestor's cabin the day before. If it's going to be war, Langford, it ain't going to be no pussy-kit and affair. I'm warning you to stay away from the two forks.  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 the spirit of bravado. Of course he told himself, as he rode, that the man was forced to say something, but the idea of him being serious in the threat to shoot anyone 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 Nestor 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 grassland between the crossing and Doubler's cabin, and when Langford urged this pony up the sloping bank of the river he saw the Nestor 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 continued to ride forward, but he had 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 recross 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 ranch-house, riding slowly, though in his heart, was a riot of rage and hatred against the Nestor. 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 ranch-house took long, but by the time Langford arrived there 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. Schiele 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 ranch-house 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 pretty definite purpose. I've 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're called bad men. Are they not?  Duncan cast a furtive glance at Langford out of the corner 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 Lisette, 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.  Langford did not allow his smile to be seen. He had not forgotten the incident of the returning of the codous horse by Duncan.  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, taken 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 was thinking deep thoughts, smiling much, though many times grimily. 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 a corral gate. And when he reached the point about twenty feet distant, he observed the faint smile on Dakota's face. Howdy, stranger came to Ladder's voice. How are you, my friend, greet at Langford easily? It was not hard for Langford to adopt an air of familiarity towards a man who 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 am from the double R, offered Langford, feeling slightly less important. Conscious that somehow the familiarity, which 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 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 that Langford, as he gazed into the steely, phantomless 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's being steadily, that he could see there an unmistakable grim mockery. And that was all, for whatever other emotion Dakota felt, they were invisible to Langford. He drew up 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 drawing. Especially when he's passed a whole lot of his time looking at brands. That's so, agreed Langford, I suppose. You've 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 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 fell to sudden deep respect for him. Even if he had not witnessed the killing of Texas Blanca, that day in Lisette, he would have known the man before him was 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.  Certainly, she 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?  No, she neglected to relate that return, Langford. Forget 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 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 struggle when I shot him. As it happened, she didn't send me, smiled Langford. There was excitement, of course, and I presume she forgot to thank you, possibly, or 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, emotion to another box that stood near the door of the cabin. Once Langford became seated Dakota again busied himself with a 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 a 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 the exposing 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 Lisette many times, and had been much impressed with Dakota's coolness and his satanic cleverness with a sick shooter, and it seemed that it would be a simple matter to arrange with him for the removal of Doubler, yet 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 seems 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 one in the sun, moon, and stars thrown in for good measure. Langford laughed again. That's human nature, my friend, he had contended. Determined not to be forced to digress from the main subject.  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 us 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.  He's the only man who's got land near yours. That's correct, admit it, Langford. I want Doubler's land. There was 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'm pretty well off there. Oh, you want his Doubler's land? He stopped working with the saddle and looked at Langford.  Or you wouldn't want Doubler's land. Did you offer to buy it? I asked him the name his own figure and he wouldn't sell. Wouldn't even consider selling, though I offered him. Would I consider it a fair price? That's odd, isn't it? You'd naturally think that money could buy everything. But Doubler's 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's merely business. Doubler's land adjoins mine. I want to extend my holdings. I can 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's 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's able to get. What are you figuring to do about Doubler? Langford glanced at Dakota with an oily, significant smile. I'm 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. Can 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 it, 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 a 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.  Not taking any chances, Dakota's voice was filled with a cold sarcasm as he continued, after an interval during which Langford kept the discreetly still tongue.  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 a 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 Nestor'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 fooled by any of the men with whom I have done business. Don't you think that at my age it is a little late the 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 propose to proceed against you in the manner I'm 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 wording 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 interests in the star brand. Provided that within one month from the 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. Dakota's eyes met his with a glance of perfect knowledge. His smile possessed a subtle, mocking quality, which was slightly disconcerting to Langford. I reckon you'll be an angel. Give your time, he said. I'm accepting that proposition, though, he added. I've been wanting to leave here. I've got tired of it, and he continued with a mysterious smile. If things turn out as I expect, you'll be glad to have me go. He rose from the bench. Let's write that agreement, he suggested. They entered the cabin, and a few minutes later Dakota sat again on the box in the lee of the cabin wall, men in his saddle. The signed agreement in his pocket, smiling, Langford rode the reverse trail, satisfied with the result of his visit. Turning once, as he reached the rise upon which Sheila had halted the morning after leaving Dakota's cabin, Langford looked back. Dakota was still busy with the saddle. Langford urged his pony down the slope of the rise, and vanished from view. Then Dakota ceased working on the saddle, drew out the signed agreement, and read it through many times. That man, he said finally, looking toward the crest of the slope where Langford had disappeared, thinks he has convinced me that I ought to kill my best friend. He hasn't changed a bit, not a damned bit. END OF CHAPTER IX CHAPTER X OF THE TRAIL TO YESTERDAY BY CHARLES ALDEN SELTZER This Libra box recording is in the public domain. Duncan heads two and two. Had Langford known that there had been a witness to his visit to Dakota, he might not have ridden away from the latter's cabin so entirely satisfied with the result of his interview. Duncan had not been much interested in Langford's differences with Doubler. He had agitated the trouble, and he fully expected Langford to take him into his confidence should any aggressive movement be contemplated. He had even expected to be allowed to plan the details of the scheme which would have as its object the downfall of the nester, for thus he hoped to satisfy his personal vengeance against the latter. But since the interview with Doubler at Doubler's cabin, Langford had been strangely silent regarding his plans. Not once had he referred to the nester, and his silence had nettle Duncan. Langford had ignored his hints, had returned monosyllabic replies to his tentative questions, causing the manager to appear to be an outsider in an affair in which he felt a vital interest. It was annoying to say the least, and Duncan's nature rebelled against a slight, whether intentional or accidental. He had waited patiently until the morning following his conversation with Langford about Dakota, certain that the Doubler owner would speak, but one after breakfast the next morning Langford had ridden away. Without breaking his silence the manager had gone into the ranch house, secured his field-glasses, mounted his pony, and followed. He kept discreetly in the rear, lingering in the depressions, skirting the bases of the hills, concealing himself in draws and behind boulders, never once making the mistake of appearing on the skyline. And when Langford was sitting on the box in front of Dakota's cabin the manager was deep into the woods that surrounded the clearing where the cabin stood, watching intently through his field-glasses. He saw Langford depart, remained after his departure, to see Dakota repeatedly read the signed agreement.  At their conversation and subsequent agreement, concerned Doubler, he had little doubt, either. For fresh in his mind was a recollection of his conversation with Langford, distinguished by Langford's carefully guarded questions regarding Dakota's ability with the six-shooter. He felt that Langford was deliberately leaving him out of the scheme, whatever it was. Puzzled and raging inwardly over the slight, Duncan did not return to the ranch house that day, and spent the night at one of the line-camps. The following day he rode into the ranch house to find that Langford had gone out riding with Sheila. Morose, sullen, Duncan again rode abroad, returning with the dusk. In his conversation with Langford that night the Doubler owner made no reference to Doubler, and studying Sheila, Duncan thought she seemed depressed. During her ride that day with her father, Sheila had received a startling revelation of his character. She had questioned him regarding his treatment of Doubler, ending with a plea for justice for the latter. For the first time during all the time she had known Langford, she had seen an angry intolerance in his eyes, and though his voice had been as bland and smooth as ever, it did not heal the wound which had been made in her heart over the discovery that he could feel impatient with her. My dear Sheila, he said, I should regret the fine that you're interested in my business affairs. Doubler declares that you were unjust, she persisted, determined to do her best to avert the trouble that seemed impending. Doubler is an obstacle in the path of progress, and will get the consideration he deserves, he said shortly. Please do not meddle with what does not concern you. Thus had an idol which Sheila worshiped, been tumbled from its pedestal. Sheila surveyed it, lying shattered at her feet. With moist eyes it might be restored, patched, so that it would resemble its original shape. But never again would it appear the same in her eyes. She had received the glimpse of her father's real character. She saw the merciless, designing, real man, strip of the polished veneer that she had admired. His soul lay naked before her, seared and rendered unlovely by the blackness of deceit and trickery. As the days passed, however, she collected the fragments of the shattered idol and began to replace them. Piece by piece she fitted them together, cementing them with her faith, so that in time the idol resembled its original shape. She had been too exacting, she told herself. Men had ways of dealing with one another which women could not understand. Her ideas of justice were tempered with mercy and pity. She allowed her heart to map out her line of conduct toward her fellow men. As a consequence, her sympathies were broad and tender. In business, though she supposed, it must be different. There mine must rule. It was a struggle in which the keenest wit and the sharpest instinct counted, and in which the emotion of mercy was subordinate to the love of gain, and so in time she erected her idol again, and the cracks and seams in it became almost invisible. While she had been restoring her idol, there had been other things to occupy her mind. A thin line devised tragedy from comedy, and after the tragedy of discovering her father's real character, she ill along for something to take her mind out of the darkness. A recollection of Duncan's jealousy, which she had exhibited on the day that she had related the story of her rescue by Dakota, still abided with her, and convinced that she might secure diversion by fanning the spark that she had discovered, she began by inducing Duncan to ask her to ride with him. Sitting on the grass one day in the shade of some fair blossoms on the slope several miles down the river, she ill have looked at Duncan with a smile. I believe I'm beginning to like the country, she said. I expect that you would like it after you are here awhile. Everybody does, it grows into one. If you ever go back east, you will never be contented. You'll be dreaming and longing. The West improves on acquaintance like the people. Meaning, she said, with a defiant mockery so plain in her eyes that Duncan drew a deep breath. Meaning, that you ought to begin to like us the people, he said. Perhaps I do like some of the people, she laughed. For instance, he said, his face reddening a little. She looked at him with a taunting smile. I don't believe that I like you so very well. You get too cross when things don't suit you. I think you are mistaken, he challenged. When have I been cross? Sheila laughed. Do you remember the night that I came home and told you and father how Dakota had rescued me from the quicksand? Well, she continued. Noting his nod and the frown, which accompanied it, you were cross that night almost borish. You moped and went off the bed without saying good night. It pleased Duncan to tell her that he had forgotten if he had ever acted that way, and she did not press him, and so a silence fell between them. You said you were beginning to like some of the people, said Duncan presently. You don't like me. Then who do you like? Well, she said, appearing to meditate, but in reality watching him closely, so that she might catch his gaze when he looked up. There's been doubler. He seems to be a very nice old man, and Duncan looked at her, and she met his gaze fairly, her eyes dancing with mischief, and Dakota. He is a character, don't you think? Duncan frowned darkly and removed his gaze from her face, directing it down into the plain on the other side of the river. What strange fatality had linked her sympathies and admiration with his enemies. A rage which he dared not let her see seized him, and he sat silent, clenching and unclenching his hands. She saw his condition and pressed him without mercy. He is a character, isn't he? An odd one, but attractive. Duncan sneered. He pulls you out of the quicksand. Of course, anybody could have done that if they'd been around. I reckon that would make him attractive in your eyes. On the other hand, he put Texas Blanca out of business. Does that killing help to make him attractive? Wasn't Blanca his enemy, if you remember?  Then according to what I have heard of the story, he met Blanca in Lisette, ordered him to leave, and when he didn't go he shot him. I understand that this is the code in matters of that sort. People have to take the law into their own hands. But he gave Blanca the opportunity to shoot first. Was it that fair? It seemed odd to her that she was defending the man who had wronged her, yet strangely enough she'd discovered that defending him gave her a thrill of satisfaction. Though she assured herself that the satisfaction came from the fact that she was engaged in the task of arousing Duncan's jealousy. You've been inquiring about him then, said Duncan, his face dark with rage and hatred. What I told you about that calf deal is the story that Dakota himself tells about it. A lot of people in this country don't believe Dakota's story. They believe what I believe, that Dakota and Blanca were in partnership on that deal, and that Dakota framed up the story about Blanca selling out to him to avert suspicion. It's likely that they wised up to the fact that we were on to them. I believe you mentioned your suspicions to Dakota himself, didn't you? The day you went over after the chaos. You had quite a talk with him about them, didn't you? said Sheila sweetly. Duncan's face whitened.   Who told you that repeated, Duncan? Doubler told me he returned Sheila with a smile. Duncan's face worked with impotent wrath as he looked at her. So Doubler's been gassing again, he said with a sneer. Well, there's never been any love lost between Doubler and me, and so what he says don't amount to much, he laughed oddly. It's strange to think how thick you are with Doubler, he said. I understand that your dad and Doubler ain't exactly on friendly footing, that your dad was trying to buy him out, and that he won't sell. There's likely to be trouble, for your dad is determined to get Doubler's land. However, that was a subject upon which Sheila did not care to dwell. I don't think I'm interested in that, she said. I presume that father is able to take care of his own affairs without any assistance from me. Duncan's eyes lighted with interest, her words showed, that she was aware of Langford's differences with the nester. Probably her father had told her, taken her into his confidence, while ignoring his manager. Perhaps he had even told her of his visit to Dakota. Perhaps there had been more than one visit, and Sheila had accompanied him. Undoubtedly, he told himself, Sheila's admiration for Dakota had resulted from not one, but many meetings. He flushed at the thought, and was forced to look away from Sheila for fear, that she might see the passion that flamed in his eyes. You've seen Dakota lately, he questioned, after he had regained sufficient control of himself, to be able to speak quietly. No, Sheila was flicking some dust from her skirts with her riding whip, and her manner was one of absolute lack of interest. Then you ain't been riding with your father, said Duncan? Some, Sheila continued to brush the dust from her skirts. After answering Duncan's question, however, she realized that there had been a subtle undercurrent of meaning in his voice, and she turned and looked sharply at him. Why, she demanded, do you mean that father has visited Dakota? I reckon I'm meaning just that. Sheila did not like the expression in Duncan's eyes, and her shin was raised a little, as she turned from him, and gave her attention to flicking the grass near her with the lash of her riding whip. Father attends to his own business, she said, with some coldness, for she resented Duncan's apparent desire to interfere. I told you that before. What he does in a business way does not interest me. No, said Duncan mockingly, though he's made some sort of deal with Dakota, he snapped, aware of his lack of wisdom in telling her this, but unable to control his resentment over the slight which had been opposed upon him by Langford, and by her own chilling manner which seemed to emphasize the fact that he had been left outside their intimate councils. A deal, said Sheila quickly, unable to control her interest. For a moment he did not answer. He felt her gaze upon him, and he met it, smiling mysteriously. Under the sudden necessity of proving his statement, his thoughts centered upon the conclusion which had resulted from his suspicions that Langford's visit to Dakota concerned Doubler. Equivocation would have taken him safely away from the pitfall into which his rash words had almost plunged him, but he felt that any evasion now would only bring scorn into the eyes which he wished to see a light with something else. Besides, there was an opportunity to speak a derogatory word about his enemy and he could not resist, could not throw it carelessly aside. There was a feminist note in his voice when he finally answered. The other day your father was speaking to me about gunmen. I told him that Dakota would do anything for money. A slow red appeared in Sheila's cheeks, mounted to her temples, disappeared entirely, and was succeeded by paleness. She kept her gaze averted, and Duncan could not see her eyes. They returned toward the slumberous plains that stretched away into the distance on the other side of the river, but Duncan knew that he had scored, and was not bothered over the possibility of there being little truth in his implied charge. He watched her, gloating over her, certain that at a stroke he had effectually eliminated Dakota as a rival. Sheila turned suddenly to him. How do you know that Dakota would do anything like that? Duncan smiled as he saw her lips straight and white, and tightening coldly. How do I know he jeered? How does a man know anything in this country? By using his eyes, of course, I've used mine. I've watched Dakota for five years. I've known all along that he isn't on the square, that he has been running his branding iron on other folks' cattle. I told you that he worked a crooked deal on me, and then sent Blanca over the divide, when he thought there was a chance of Blanca giving the deal away. I am told that when he met Blanca in the Red Dog, Blanca told him plainly that he didn't know anything about the calf deal. That shows how he treats his friends. He'll do anything for money. The other day I saw your father at his cabin talking to him. They had quite a confab. Your father has had trouble with Doubler, you know that. He has threatened to run Doubler off the two forks. I heard that myself. He wouldn't try to run Doubler off himself, that's too dangerous a business, for him to undertake. Not wanting to take the chance himself, he hires someone else, who? Dakota's the only gunman around these parts, therefore your dad goes to Dakota. He and Dakota signed a paper. I saw Dakota reading it. I've just put two and two together, and that's the result. I reckon I ain't far out of the way. Sheila laughed, as she might have laughed had someone told her that she herself had plotted to murder Doubler.  She sat silent. She did not offer to defend Dakota for inner thoughts still lingered a recollection of the scene, of the shooting in Lisette. 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 only 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 the day when she had asked him to return Dakota's pony. Duncan's matter then had seemed to indicate that he feared Dakota, at least he 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 arcades, 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 while she looked at the manager. I believe you're lying, she said coldly. You don't like Dakota, but I have faith in him and 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 could be said for you is that you have a laudered 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. She'll arose and walked her pony, mountain 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 sitting where she had left him, his back to her, his face turned towards the plains, which spread away toward Dakota's cabin, twenty miles down the river. End of CHAPTER X CHAPTER XI OF A TRAIL TO YESTERDAY BY CHARLES ALDIN SELTZER This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. 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 him 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 last 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 he sat for a long time on the slope, meditating over his problem, and in the end he smiled. It was not a good smile to see, for his eyes were light with a crafty, designing gleam, and there was a cruel curve in the line 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 ranch house as much as possible. He rode out with Langford many times, though he covertly questioned the double R owner, concerning the affair with Doubler, he could gain no satisfying information. Langford's residents further aggravated the passions which rioted in his heart, and finally one afternoon, when they rode up to the ranch house, 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 a fraction of a second on the face of his manager, and then the old Blant's 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 straightened 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. I have no desire to talk with Dakota. Frankly, my dear Duncan, I don't like the man. You've 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's secret, and Duncan's suspicions that the visit concerned Doubler became a conviction. Filled with resentment over Langford's attitude towards 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 Doubler 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 reconnoitre. A swift survey of the corral showed him a rangy, pie-bold pony, which he knew belonged to Dakota. As the animal had on a bridle and 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 to the edge of a sand dune and down into the bed of a dry arroyo. Urging the animal along this, he presently reached the sand-flat on his edge, a rose of grove of fur balsam and cotton wood. 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 door away 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 the ride forward, raising one hand, with a palm towards 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 truckulent snap. You alone? Duncan nodded. Where's your new boss, sarcastically inquired Doubler? Ain't you scared of Get Lost running around alone without anyone to look after him? I and his keeper returned, Duncan, shortly. Doubler laughed unbelievingly. He was putting in a heap of your time being his keeper. The last I saw of you, he declared coldly. Maybe I was, we had a falling out. The venom in Duncan's voice was not at all pretended. He double-crossed me. Double-crossed you? There was disbelief and suspicion in Doubler'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 alright, he said. I've got more than that coming from you. I'm telling you about what he's 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. Maybe you and him have had a falling out, but I ain't taken any chances on you being my friend, not a darn 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 tellin' how he's 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.   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 main advantage of you, which I might have done if I wanted to, he smiled ingratiatingly. We ain't going to go over what's happened between us, declared Doubler coldly. We're letting that go by. If you'll stick to the palaver that you spoke about, maybe we'll be able to get 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 talkin' about it. What's between us now is something different. I 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.  There ain't no comparing 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. Meaning? 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 plover, he said coldly, while he fingered the rifle in his hand significantly. If that's what you come for, you can be hitting the breeze right back to the double-R. I'm giving 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. He was interrupted by Duncan's harsh laugh. Of course you don't see, he said.  Langford ain't no friend of yours, and I reckon that you wouldn't consider any man your friend, which sits in his cabin a couple of hours talking to Langford about you. Meaning that Langford's been to see Dakota, Doubler's voice, was suddenly harsh, and his eyes glinted with suspicion. Certain that he had scored, Duncan turned and smiled into the distance, when he again faced Doubler, his face wore an expression of sympathy. When a man's been a friend to you, and you find that he's going to double-cross you, it's apt to make you feel pretty mean, he said. I'm allowing that. But there's a lot of us get double-crossed. I got it, and I'm seeing that they don't ring any cold deck on you. How do you know Dakota's trying to do that, demanded Doubler? Duncan laughed. I've kept my eyes open, also. I've been listening right hard. I wasn't so far away when Langford went to Dakota's shack, and I heard considerable of what they said about you. Doubler's interest was now intense, he spoke eagerly. What did they say? I reckon you ought to be able to guess what they said, said Duncan, with a crafty smile.  And you won't sell. Didn't he tell you in front of me that he was going to make trouble for you? He wants me to make it, though. He wants me to set the boys on you, but I won't do it. Then he shuts up like a clam, and don't say anything more about it. He saw Dakota send Blanca over the divide, and he summoned press by his shooting. He figures that if Dakota puts one man out of business, he'll put another out. Meaning that Langford's hired Dakota to look for me, Doubler's eyes were gleaming brightly. You're some keen, after all, taunted Duncan. Doubler's jaw snapped.  Dakota wouldn't do it. Maybe I'm a liar, said Duncan, his face paling, but his voice low and quiet. He was not surprised that Dakota should exhibit emotion over the charge that his friend was planning to murder him. Yet he knew that the suspicion once established in Doubler's mind would soon grow to the stature of a conviction.  Dakota's been here. Did he tell you about Langford coming to see him? I reckon not, he added. Has he caught Doubler's blank stare? He's likely not to tell you about it, but I reckon that if he was your friend he'd tell you. I reckon you told him about Langford wanting your land, and about him telling you he'd make things hot for you. Doubler nodded silently, and Duncan continued. Well, he said with a short laugh, I've told you and it's up to you. They were talking about you, and if Dakota's your friend, as you're claiming him to be, he'd have told you what they was talking about. If it wasn't what I say it was, him knowing, how Langford feels towards you. And they didn't only talk. Langford wrote something on a paper and gave it to Dakota. I don't know what he wrote, but it seemed to tickle Dakota a heap, at least ways. He'd done a heap of laughing over it. Likely Langford's promised him a heap of dust to do the job. Maybe here's your friend, but if I was you, I wouldn't give him no chance to say I'd drawed first. Doubler placed his rifle down, and passed a hand slowly and hesitatingly over his forehead. I don't like to think that of Dakota, he said. Faith and suspicion, battling for supremacy. Dakota just left here. He acted heap-friendly, as usual, maybe more so. I reckon that when a man goes gunning for another man, he don't advertise a whole lot, observed Duncan insinuatingly. Noah agreed Doubler, staring blankly into the distance, where he had last seen his supposed friend. A man don't generally do a heap of advertising when he's out looking for a man.  How do I know you ain't lying to me, he demanded, claring at Duncan. His hands clenched in an effort to control himself. Duncan's eyes did not waver. I reckon you don't know, whether I'm lying, he returned, showing his teeth in a slight smile.  How do you know that Langford and Dakota ain't friends? How do you know? But that they've been friends back east. Do you know where Dakota came from? Maybe he's from the east, too.  Dakota and Sheila Langford are pretty thick. She makes believe she don't like him, but he saved her from quicksand, and she's been running with him considerable. Takes his part, too, doesn't it? But she makes you believe that she doesn't like him. I reckon she's pretty foxy. Doubler's memory went back to a conversation he had had with Sheila in which Dakota had been the subject under discussion. He remembered that she had shown a decided coldness, suggesting by her manner that she and Dakota were not on the best of terms. Could it be that she had merely pretended this coldness? Could it be that she was concerned at the plot against him? That she and her father and Dakota were combined against him for the common purpose of taking his life? He was convinced that any such suspicion against Sheila must be unjust, for he had studied her face many times, and was certain that there was not a line of deceit in it. And yet, was it not odd that, when he had told her of the trouble between him and her father, she had not immediately taken her parents side. To be sure she had told him that Langford was merely her stepfather. But could not that statement also have been a misleading one? Even if Langford were only her stepfather, would she not have felt at her duty to align herself with him? I reckon you know a heap about Dakota, don't you? came Duncan's voice, breaking into Doubler's reflections. You know, for instance, that Dakota came here from Dakota, or any way he says he came here from there. We'll say you know that. But what do you know about Langford? Didn't he tell you that he was going to get you? Duncan turned his back to Doubler and walked to his pony. He drew out a sick shooter, stuck it into its holster, and placed one foot in a stirrup, preparatory to mounting. Then he turned and spoke gravely to Doubler. I've done all I could, he said.  You can go on letting Dakota and Sheila pretend to be friendly to you, and some day you'll get wise awful sudden when it's too late. Or you can wise up now and fix Dakota before he gets a chance at you. I reckon that's all. You can't say that I didn't put you wise to the game. He swung into the saddle and urged the pony toward the crossing. Looking back from a crest of a rise on the other side of the river, he saw Doubler standing in the doorway, his head bowed in his hands. Duncan smiled, his lips in cold, crafty curves, for he had planted the seed of suspicion and was satisfied that it would presently flourish and grow until it would finally accomplish the destruction of his rival, Dakota. End of Chapter 11 Chapter 12 of the Trail to Yesterday by Charles Alvin Seltzer. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. A meeting on the River Trail. About ten o'clock in the morning of a perfect day, Sheila left the double-r ranch house for a ride to the two forks to visit Doubler. This new world, to which she had come so hopefully, had lately grown very lonesome. It had promised much and it had given very little. The country itself was not to blame for the state of her mind, though, she told herself, as she rode over the brown, sun-scorched grass of the River Trail. It was the people. They, even her father, seemed to hold aloof from her. It seemed that she would never be able to fit in anywhere. She was convinced that the people with whom she was forced to associate were entirely out of accord with the principles of life which had been her guide. They appeared selfish, cold, and distant. Duncan's sister, the only woman beside herself in the vicinity, had discouraged all her little advances toward a better acquaintance, betraying in many ways a disinclination towards those exchanges of confidence which are the delight of every normal woman. Sheila had become aware, very soon, that there could be no hope of gaining her friendship or confidence, and so of late she had ceased her efforts. Of course, she could not attempt to cultivate an acquaintance with any of the cowboys. She already knew one too well, and the knowledge of her relationship to him had the effect of dulling her desire for seeking the company of others. For Duncan she had developed a decided dislike which amounted almost to hatred. She had been able to seek quite early in their acquaintance the defects of his character, and though she had played on his jealousy in a spirit of fun, she had been careful to make him see that anything more than mere acquaintance was impossible. At least, that was what she had tried to do, and she doubted very much whether she had succeeded. Doubler was the only one who had betrayed any real friendship for her, and to him, in her lonesomeness she turned in spite of the warning he had given her. She had visited him once since the day following her father's visit, and he had received her with his usual cordiality, but she had been able to detect a certain constraint in his manner, which had caused her to determine to stay away from the two forks. But this morning she felt that she must go somewhere and she selected Doubler's cabin. Since that day on the edge of the butte overlooking the river, Duncan had voiced to suspicions that her father had planned to remove Doubler. She had felt more than ever the always widening gulf that separated her from her parent, from the day on which he had become impatient with her when she had questioned him concerning his intentions with regard to Doubler. He had treated her in much the manner that he had always treated her, though it had seemed to her that there was something lacking. There was a certain strained civility in his manner, a veneer which smoothed over the breach of trust which his attitude that day had created. Many times watching him, she had wondered why she had never been able to peer through the mask of his imperturbability at the real, unlovely character it concealed. She believed it was because she had always trusted him and had not taken the trouble to try to uncover his real character. She had tried for a long time the fight down, the inevitable growing estrangement, telling herself that she had been, and was, mistaken in her estimate of his character since the day he had told her not to meddle with his affairs. And she had nearly succeeded in winning the fight when Duncan had again destroyed her faith with the story of her father's visit to Dakota. Duncan had had it two and two. He had told her when furnishing her with the threads out of which he had constructed the fabric of his suspicions. She was compelled to acknowledge that they seemed sufficiently strong. Contemplation of the situation, however, had convinced her that Dakota was partly to blame, and her anger against him, greatly softened since the rescue at the quicksand, flared out again. Two weeks had passed since Duncan had told her of his suspicions, and they had been two weeks of constant worry and dread to her. Unable to stand the suspense longer, she had finally decided to seek out Dakota to attempt to confirm Duncan's story of her father's visit and to plead with Dakota to withhold his hand, but first she would see Doubler. The task of talking to Dakota about anything was not to her liking, but she compromised with her conscience by telling herself that she owed it to herself to prevent the murder of Doubler, that if the nester should be killed with her in possession of the plan for his taking off, and be able to lift a hand and protest her warning, she would be as guilty as her father or Dakota. As she rode, she could not help contrasting Dakota's character to those of her father and Duncan. She eliminated Duncan immediately, as being not strong enough to compare either favorably or unfavorably with either of the other two, and much against her will, she was compelled to admit that with all his shortcomings Dakota made a better figure than her father. But there was little consolation for her in this comparison, for she bitterly assured herself that there was nothing attractive than either. Both had wronged her, Dakota deliberately and maliciously, her father had placed the bar of cold civility between her and himself, and she could no longer go to him with her confidences. She had lost his friendship, and he had lost her respect. Of late she had speculated much over Dakota. That day at the quicksand crossing, he had seemed to be a different man from the one who had stood with revolver in hand before the closed door of his cabin. For one thing, she was no longer afraid of him. In his treatment of her at the crossing, he had not appeared as nearly so forbidding as formally, had been almost attractive to her, in those moments when she could not forget the injury he had done her. Those moments had been few, to be sure, but during them she had caught flashes of the real Dakota, and though she fought against admiring him, she knew that deep in her heart lingered an emotion which must be taken into account. He had really done her no serious injury, nothing which would not be undone through the simple process of the law, and in his manner on the day of the rescue there had been much respect, and in spite of the mocking levity with which she had met her reproaches she felt that he had some slight remorse over his action. For a time she forgot to think about Dakota, becoming lost in contemplation of the beauty of the country. Sweeping away from the crest of the ridge on which she was riding, it lay before her, basking in the warm sunlight of the morning, wild and picturesque, motionless, silent, as quiet and peaceful as might have been that morning on which his work finished, the creator had surveyed the new world with a satisfied eye. She had reached the point about a mile from Doubler's cabin, still drinking in the beauty that met her eyes on every hand, when an odd sound broke the perfect quiet. Suddenly alert she halted her pony and listened. The sound had been strangely like a pistol shot, though louder, she decided, as she listened to its echo reverberating in the adjacent hills. It became fainter and finally died away, and she sat for a long time motionless in the saddle, listening, but no other sound disturbed the solemn quiet that surrounded her. It seemed to her that the sound had come from the direction of Doubler's cabin, but she was not quite certain, knowing how difficult it was to determine the direction of sound in so vast a stretch of country. She ceased to speculate and once more gave her attention to the country, urging her pony forward, riding down the slope of the ridge to the level of the river trail. Fifteen minutes later still holding the river trail, she saw a horseman approaching, and long before he came near enough for her to distinguish his features, she knew the rider for Dakota. He was sitting carelessly in the saddle, one leg thrown over the pommel, smoking a cigarette, and when he saw her, he threw the ladder away, doffed his broad hat, and smiled gravely at her. Were you shooting, she questioned, aware, that this was an odd greeting, but eager to have the mystery of that lone shot cleared up? I reckon I ain't been shooting lately, he returned. It must have been Doubler, I heard it myself. I just left Doubler, and he was cleaning his rifle. He must have been trying it. I do that myself often, after I've cleaned mine, just to make sure it's right. He narrowed his eyes whimsically at her. So you're riding the river trail again, he said. I thought you'd be doing it. Why, she questioned defiantly. Well, for one thing, there's a certain fascination about a place where one has been close to cashing in. I expect that when we've been in such a place, we like to come back and look at it, just to see how near we came to going over the divide. And there's another reason why I expected to see you on the river trail again. You forgot to thank me for pulling you out. He deserved thanks for that, she knew. But there were in his voice and eyes the same subtle mockery which had marked his manner that other time, and as before she experienced a feeling of deep resentment. Why could he not have shown some evidence of remorse for his crime against her? She believed that had he done so now, she might have found it in her heart to go a little distance towards forgiving him. But there was only mockery in his voice and words, and her resentment against him grew, mingling with it, more over, was the bitterness which had settled over her within the last few days. It found expression in her voice when she answered him. This country is full of savages. Indians you mean I reckon? Well, no. There are none around here, excepting over near Fort Union on the reservation. He drawed hatefully and regarded her with a mild smile. I mean white savages, she declared spitefully.  The silence grew painful. She moved on easily under his direct gaze, and a dash of color swept into her cheeks. Then he spoke quietly. You've been seeing white savages? Yes, vehemently. Not around here, the hateful mockery of that draw.  I thought you was meaning me, he said, without resentment. I reckon I've got it coming to me. But at the same time, that isn't exactly the way to talk to your—he hesitated and smiled oddly, apparently aware, that he had made a mistake in referring to his crime against her. He hastened to repair it.  However, she saw through the artifice, and the bitterness in her voice grew more pronounced. It is needless for you to remind me of our relationship, she said. I'm not likely to forget. Have you told your father yet, in his voice, was the quiet scorn and the peculiar repressed venom which she had detected when he had referred to her father during that other occasion at the crossing? Had mystified her, and yet, within the past few days she had felt her scorn herself, and knew that it was not remarkable. Undoubtedly he, having had much experience with men, had been able to see through Langford's mask and knew him for what he was. For the first time in her life she experienced a sensation of embarrassed guilt, overhearing her name linked with Langford's, and she looked defiantly at Dakota. I have not told him, she said, I won't tell him. I told you that before. I do not care to undergo the humiliation of hearing my name mentioned in the same breath with yours. And if you do not already know it, I want to tell you that David Langford is not my father. My real father died a long time ago, and Langford is only my stepfather. The sudden moisture was in her eyes, and she did not see Dakota's start, did not observe the queer power that spread over his face, failed to detect the odd light in his eyes. However, she heard his voice sharpened tone, and filled with genuine astonishment. Your stepfather? He had spurred his pony beside hers, and looking up she saw that his face had suddenly grown stern and grim. Do you mean that, he demanded half angrily? Why didn't you tell me that before? Why didn't you tell me when, the night, I married you? Would it have made any difference to you, she said bitterly? Does it make any difference now? You have treated me like a savage. You are treating me like one now. I haven't any friends at all, she continued, her voice breaking slightly, and she suddenly realized her entire helplessness before the combined evilness of Duncan, her father, and the man who sat on this pony beside her.  She sat there for a time, shuddering, and watching her closely to Dakota's face grew slowly pale and grim. Hard lines came into his lips. I know what Duncan's friendship amounts to, he said harshly, but isn't your stepfather your friend? My friend?  I don't know what has come over him, she continued, looking up at Dakota, her eyes filled with wonder for the sympathy which she saw on his face, and voice. He has changed since he came out here. He is so selfish and heartless. What's he been doing, hurting you? She did not detect the anger in his voice, for he had kept it so low that she scarcely heard the words. Hurting me, no. He has not done anything to me.  For how could his interest be genuine when he was a party to the plot to murder Doubler? Yet, perhaps not. Maybe Duncan had been lying. Determining to get to the bottom of the affair as quickly as possible? Sheila continued rapidly, her scorn giving way to eagerness. Don't you know? And this time her voice was almost a plea. What did Father visit you for? Wasn't it about Doubler? Didn't he hire you, too, to kill him? She saw his lips tighten strangely, his face grow pale, his eyes flashed with some mysterious emotion, and she knew in an instant that he was guilty, guilty as her father. Oh, she said, and the scorn came into her voice again. Then it is true.  He winced as though he had received an unexpected blow in the face, but almost immediately he smiled, a hard cold, sneering smile which chilled her. Who has been telling you this, the question came slowly, without the slightest trace of excitement. Duncan told me, Duncan, there was much contempt in his voice, not your father. She shook her head negatively, wondering at his cold composure. No wonder her father had selected him. He laughed mirthlessly. So that's the reason Doubler was so friendly to his rifle this morning, he said, as though her words had explained the mystery which had been puzzling him. Doubler and me have been friends for a long time, but this morning, while I was talking to him, he kept his rifle beside him all the time. He must have heard from someone that I was gunning for him.  He smiled at her eagerness but spoke gravely, and with earnestness which she could not help but feel.  His lips curled with quiet sarcasm. You are like a lot of other people in this country, he added. Because I put Blanca away, they think, I'm a professional gunman. But I want you, he placed a significant emphasis on the word, to understand that there wasn't any other way to deal with Blanca, by coming back here after selling me that stolen, star stock, and refusing to admit the deed in the presence of other people, even denying it and accusing me, he forced me to take the step I did with him. Even then I gave him his chance. That he didn't take it isn't my fault. I suppose I look pretty black to you because I treat you like I did. But it was partly your fault, too. Maybe that's mysterious to you. But it will have to stay a mystery. I had an idea in my head that night and something else. I've found something out since that makes me feel a lot sorry. If I had known what I know now, that wouldn't have happened to you. I've got my eyes open now. Their ponies were very close together, and leaning over suddenly, he placed both hands on her shoulders and gazed into her eyes, his own flashing with a strange light. She did not try to escape his hands, for she felt that his sincerity warranted the action. I've treated you mean, Sheila, he said. About as mean as a man could treat a woman. I'm sorry. I want you to believe that, and maybe someday. When this business is over, you'll understand and forgive me. This business? Sheila drew back and looked at him wonderingly. What do you mean?  Her question had brought about a return of that mock-in reserve which she could not penetrate. Apparently he would let her no farther into the mystery whose existence his words had betrayed. He had allowed her to get a glimpse of his inner self, and shown her that he was not the despicable creature she had thought him, had apparently been about to take her into his confidence. And she had felt a growing sympathy for him, and had been prepared to meet him half-way in an effort to settle their differences, but she saw that the opportunity was gone. Was hidden under the cloak of mystery which had been about him from the beginning of their acquaintance. 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 eye she saw a glint of grim humor. Well, that's the answer. I'm 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 had 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 Nestor, but that he had refused. She had not been wrong, Duncan had not been wrong in his suspicions, that her father was planning the death of the Nestor. Duncan's only mistake was 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 mistake in his earnestness, she thought, for there was no evidence of the seat or navery 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, accepting 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 towards Nestor'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 the 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. Faced down, his arms outstretched, his legs doubled under him.