CHAPTER XII
A MEETING ON THE RIVER TRAIL
About ten o'clock in the morning of a perfect day Sheila left the Double Rranchhouse for a ride to the Two Forks to visit Doubler. This new worldinto which she had come so hopefully had lately grown very lonesome. Ithad promised much and it had given very little. The country itself was notto blame for the state of her mind, though, she told herself as she rodeover 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 wasconvinced that the people with whom she was forced to associate wereentirely out of accord with the principles of life which had been herguide--they appeared selfish, cold, and distant. Duncan's sister, the onlywoman beside herself in the vicinity, had discouraged all her littleadvances toward a better acquaintance, betraying in many ways adisinclination toward those exchanges of confidence which are the delightof every normal woman. Sheila had become aware very soon that there couldbe no hope of gaining her friendship or confidence and so of late she hadceased her efforts.
Of course, she could not attempt to cultivate an acquaintance with any ofthe cowboys--she already knew _one_ too well, and the knowledge of herrelationship to him had the effect of dulling her desire for seeking thecompany of the others.
For Duncan she had developed a decided dislike which amounted almost tohatred. She had been able to see quite early in their acquaintance thedefects of his character, and though she had played on his jealousy in aspirit of fun, she had been careful to make him see that anything morethan mere acquaintance was impossible. At least that was what she hadtried to do, and she doubted much whether she had succeeded.
Doubler was the only one who had betrayed any real friendship for her, andto him, in her lonesomeness, she turned, in spite of the warning he hadgiven her. She had visited him once since the day following her father'svisit, and he had received her with his usual cordiality, but she had beenable to detect a certain constraint in his manner which had caused her todetermine to stay away from the Two Forks. But this morning she felt thatshe must go somewhere, and she selected Doubler's cabin.
Since that day when on the edge of the butte overlooking the river Duncanhad voiced his suspicions that her father had planned to remove Doubler,Sheila had felt more than ever the always widening gulf that separated herfrom her parent. From the day on which he had become impatient with herwhen she had questioned him concerning his intentions with regard toDoubler he had treated her in much the manner that he always treated her,though it had seemed to her that there was something lacking; there was acertain strained civility in his manner, a veneer which smoothed over thebreach of trust which his attitude that day had created.
Many times, watching him, Sheila had wondered why she had never been ableto peer through the mask of his imperturbability at the real, unlovelycharacter it concealed. She believed it was because she had always trustedhim and had not taken the trouble to try to uncover his real character.She had tried for a long time to fight down the inevitable, growingestrangement, telling herself that she had been, and was, mistaken in herestimate of his character since the day he had told her not to meddle withhis affairs, and she had nearly succeeded in winning the fight when Duncanhad again destroyed her faith with the story of her father's visit toDakota.
Duncan had added two and two, he had told her when furnishing her with thethreads out of which he had constructed the fabric of his suspicions, andshe was compelled to acknowledge that they seemed sufficiently strong.Contemplation of the situation, however, had convinced her that Dakota waspartly to blame, and her anger against him--greatly softened since therescue at the quicksand--flared out again.
Two weeks had passed since Duncan had told her of his suspicions, and theyhad been two weeks of constant worry and dread to her.
Unable to stand the suspense longer she had finally decided to seek outDakota to attempt to confirm Duncan's story of her father's visit and toplead 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, butshe compromised with her conscience by telling herself that she owed it toherself to prevent the murder of Doubler--that if the nester should bekilled with her in possession of the plan for his taking off, and able tolift a hand in protest or warning, she would be as guilty as her father orDakota.
As she rode she could not help contrasting Dakota's character to those ofher father and Duncan. She eliminated Duncan immediately, as being notstrong enough to compare either favorably or unfavorably with either ofthe other two. And, much against her will, she was compelled to admit thatwith all his shortcomings Dakota made a better figure than her father. Butthere was little consolation for her in this comparison, for she bitterlyassured herself that there was nothing attractive in either. Both hadwronged her--Dakota deliberately and maliciously; her father had placedthe bar of a cold civility between her and himself, and she could nolonger go to him with her confidences. She had lost his friendship, and hehad lost her respect.
Of late she had speculated much over Dakota. That day at the quicksandcrossing he had seemed to be a different man from the one who had stoodwith revolver in hand before the closed door of his cabin, giving her achoice of two evils. For one thing, she was no longer afraid of him; inhis treatment of her at the crossing he had not appeared as nearly soforbidding as formerly, had been almost attractive to her, in thosemoments when she could forget the injury he had done her. Those momentshad been few, to be sure, but during them she had caught flashes of thereal Dakota, and though she fought against admiring him, she knew thatdeep in her heart lingered an emotion which must be taken into account. Hehad really done her no serious injury, nothing which would not be undonethrough the simple process of the law, and in his manner on the day of therescue there had been much respect, and in spite of the mocking levitywith which he had met her reproaches she felt that he felt some slightremorse over his action.
For a time she forgot to think about Dakota, becoming lost incontemplation of the beauty of the country. Sweeping away from the crestof the ridge on which she was riding, it lay before her, basking in thewarm sunlight of the morning, wild and picturesque, motionless, silent--asquiet and peaceful as might have been that morning on which, his workfinished, the Creator had surveyed the new world with a satisfied eye.
She had reached a point about a mile from Doubler's cabin, still drinkingin the beauty that met her eyes on every hand, when an odd sound broke theperfect quiet.
Suddenly alert, she halted her pony and listened.
The sound had been strangely like a pistol shot, though louder, shedecided, as she listened to its echo reverberating in the adjacent hills.It became fainter, and finally died away, and she sat for a long timemotionless in the saddle, listening, but no other sound disturbed thesolemn quiet that surrounded her.
It seemed to her that the sound had come from the direction of Doubler'scabin, but she was not quite certain, knowing how difficult it was todetermine 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 levelof the river trail.
Fifteen minutes later, still holding the river trail, she saw a horsemanapproaching, and long before he came near enough for her to distinguishhis features she knew the rider for Dakota. He was sitting carelessly inthe saddle, one leg thrown over the pommel, smoking a cigarette, and whenhe saw her he threw the latter away, doffed his broad hat, and smiledgravely 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 beenDoubler. I heard it myself. I've just left Doubler, and he was cleaninghis rifle. He must have been trying it. I do that myself, often, afterI've cleaned mine, just to
make sure it's right." He narrowed his eyeswhimsically at her. "So you're riding the fiver trail again?" he said. "Ithought you'd be doing it."
"Why?" she questioned, defiantly.
"Well, for one thing, there's a certain fascination about a place whereone has been close to cashing in--I expect that when we've been in such aplace we like to come back and look at it just to see how near we came togoing over the divide. And there's another reason why I expected to seeyou on the river trail again. You forgot to thank me for pulling youout."
He deserved thanks for that, she knew. But there were in his voice andeyes the same subtle mockery which had marked his manner that other time,and as before she experienced a feeling of deep resentment. Why could henot have shown some evidence of remorse for his crime against her? Shebelieved that had he done so now she might have found it in her heart togo a little distance toward forgiving him. But there was only mockery inhis voice and words and her resentment against him grew. Mingling with it,moreover, was the bitterness which had settled over her within the lastfew days. It found expression in her voice when she answered him:
"This country is full of--of savages!"
"Indians, you mean, I reckon? Well, no, there are none aroundhere--excepting over near Fort Union, on the reservation." He drawledhatefully and regarded her with a mild smile.
"I mean white savages!" she declared spitefully.
His smile grew broader, and then slowly faded and he sat quiet, studyingher face. The silence grew painful; she moved uneasily under his directgaze and a dash of color swept into her cheeks. Then he spoke quietly.
"You been seeing white savages?"
"Yes!" venomously.
"Not around here?" The hateful mockery of that drawl!
"I am talking to one," she said, her eyes blazing with impotent anger.
"I thought you was meaning me," he said, without resentment. "I reckonI've got it coming to me. But at the same time that isn't exactly the wayto talk to your----" He hesitated and smiled oddly, apparently aware thathe had made a mistake in referring to his crime against her. He hastenedto repair it. "Your rescuer," he corrected.
However, she saw through the artifice, and the bitterness in her voicegrew more pronounced. "It is needless for you to remind me of ourrelationship," she said; "I am not likely to forget."
"Have you told your father yet?"
In his voice was the quiet scorn and the peculiar, repressed venom whichshe had detected when he had referred to her father during that otheroccasion at the crossing. It mystified her, and yet within the past fewdays she had felt this scorn herself and knew that it was not remarkable.Undoubtedly he, having had much experience with men, had been able to seethrough Langford's mask and knew him for what he was. For the first timein her life she experienced a sensation of embarrassed guilt over hearingher 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 thatbefore--I do not care to undergo the humiliation of hearing my namementioned in the same breath with yours. And if you do not already knowit, I want to tell you that David Langford is not my father; my realfather died a long time ago, and Langford is only my stepfather."
A sudden moisture was in her eyes and she did not see Dakota start, didnot observe the queer pallor that spread over his face, failed to detectthe odd light in his eyes. However, she heard his voice--sharp in tone andfilled with genuine astonishment.
"Your stepfather?" He had spurred his pony beside hers and looking up shesaw 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'tyou tell me when--the night I married you?"
"Would it have made any difference to you?" she said bitterly. "Does itmake any difference now? You have treated me like a savage; you aretreating me like one now. I--I haven't any friends at all," she continued,her voice breaking slightly, as she suddenly realized her entirehelplessness before the combined evilness of Duncan, her father, and theman who sat on his pony beside her. A sob shook her, and her hands went toher face, covering her eyes.
She sat there for a time, shuddering, and watching her closely, Dakota'sface grew slowly pale, and grim, hard lines came into his lips.
"I know what Duncan's friendship amounts to," he said harshly. "But isn'tyour stepfather your friend?"
"My friend?" She echoed his words with a hopeless intonation that closedDakota's teeth like a vise. "I don't know what has come over him," shecontinued, looking up at Dakota, her eyes filled with wonder for thesympathy which she saw in his face and voice; "he has changed since hecame out here; he is so selfish and heartless."
"What's he been doing? Hurting you?" She did not detect the anger in hisvoice, for he had kept it so low that she scarcely heard the words.
"Hurting me? No; he has not done anything to me. Don't you know?" she saidscornfully, certain that he was mocking her again--for how could hisinterest be genuine when he was a party to the plot to murder Doubler? Yetperhaps not--maybe Duncan _had_ been lying. Determined to get to thebottom of the affair as quickly as possible, Sheila continued rapidly, herscorn giving way to eagerness. "Don't you know?" And this time her voicewas almost a plea. "What did father visit you for? Wasn't it aboutDoubler? Didn't he hire you to--to kill him?"
She saw his lips tighten strangely, his face grow pale, his eyes flashwith some mysterious emotion, and she knew in an instant that he wasguilty--guilty as her father!
"Oh!" she said, and the scorn came into her voice again. "Then it is true!You and my father have conspired to murder an inoffensive old man!You--you cowards!"
He winced, as though he had received an unexpected blow in the face, butalmost immediately he smiled--a hard, cold, sneering smile which chilledher.
"Who has been telling you this?" The question came slowly, without theslightest 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 wonderher father had selected him!
He laughed mirthlessly. "So that's the reason Doubler was so friendly tohis rifle this morning?" he said, as though her words had explained amystery which had been puzzling him. "Doubler and me have been friends fora long time. But this morning while I was talking to him he kept his riflebeside him all the time. He must have heard from someone that I wasgunning for him."
"Then you haven't been hired to kill him?"
He smiled at her eagerness, but spoke gravely and with an earnestnesswhich she could not help but feel. "Miss Sheila," he said, "there isn'tmoney enough in ten counties like this to make me kill Doubler." His lipscurled with a quiet sarcasm. "You are like a lot of other people in thiscountry," he added. "Because I put Blanca away they think I am aprofessional gunman. But I want _you_"--he placed a significant emphasison the word--"to understand that there wasn't any other way to deal withBlanca. By coming back here after selling me that stolen Star stock andrefusing to admit the deed in the presence of other people--even denyingit and accusing me--he forced me to take the step I did with him. Eventhen, 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 treated you like I did.But it was partly your fault, too. Maybe that's mysterious to you, but itwill have to stay a mystery. I had an idea in my head that night--andsomething else. I've found something out since that makes me feel a lotsorry. If I had known what I know now, that wouldn't have happened toyou--I've got my eyes open now."
Their ponies were very close together, and leaning over suddenly he placedboth hands on her shoulders and gazed into her eyes, his own flashing witha strange light. She did not try to escape his hands, for she felt thathis sincerity warranted the action.
"I've treated you mean, Sheila," he said; "about as mean as a man couldtreat a woman. I am sorry. I want you to believe that. And maybe someday--when this business is over--you'll unders
tand and forgive me."
"This business?" Sheila drew back and looked at him wonderingly. "What doyou mean?"
There was no mirth in his laugh as he dropped his hands to his sides. Herquestion had brought about a return of that mocking reserve which shecould not penetrate. Apparently he would let her no farther into themystery whose existence his words had betrayed. He had allowed her to geta glimpse of his inner self; had shown her that he was not the despicablecreature she had thought him; had apparently been about to take her intohis confidence. And she had felt a growing sympathy for him and had beenprepared 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 ofmystery which had been about him from the beginning of theiracquaintance.
"This Doubler business," he answered, and she nibbled impatiently at herlips, knowing that he had meant something else.
"That's evasion," she said, looking straight at him, hoping that he wouldrelent and speak.
"Is it?" In his unwavering eyes she saw a glint of grim humor. "Well,that's the answer. I am not going to kill Doubler--if it will do you anygood to know. I don't kill my friends."
"Then," she said eagerly, catching at the hope which he held out to her,"father didn't hire you to kill him? You didn't talk to father aboutthat?"
His lips curled. "Why don't you ask your father about that?"
The hope died within her. Dakota's words and manner implied that herfather had tried to employ him to make way with the nester, but that hehad refused. She had not been wrong--Duncan had not been wrong in hissuspicion that her father was planning the death of the nester. Duncan'sonly mistake was in including Dakota in the scheme.
She had hoped against hope that she might discover that Duncan had beenwrong altogether; that she had done her father an injury in believing himcapable of deliberately planning a murder. She looked again at Dakota.There was no mistaking his earnestness, she thought, for there was noevidence of deceit or knavery in his face, nor in the eyes that weresteadily watching her.
She put her hands to her face and shivered, now thoroughly convinced ofher father's guilt; feeling a sudden repugnance for him, for everybody andeverything in the country, excepting Doubler.
She had done all she could, however, to prevent them killing Doubler--allshe could do except to warn Doubler of his danger, and she would go to himimmediately. Without looking again at Dakota she turned, dry eyed andpale, urging her pony up the trail toward the nester's cabin, leavingDakota sitting silent in his saddle, watching her.
She lingered on the trail, riding slowly, halting when she came to a spotwhich offered a particularly good view of the country surrounding her, forin spite of her lonesomeness she could not help appreciating the beauty ofthe land, with its towering mountains, its blue sky, its vast, yawningdistances, and the peacefulness which seemed to be everywhere except inher heart.
She presently reached the Two Forks and urged her pony through the shallowwater of its crossing, riding up the slight, intervening slope and upon astretch of plain beside a timber grove. A little later she came to thecorral gates, where she dismounted and hitched her pony to a rail, smilingto herself as she thought of how surprised Doubler would be to see her.
Then she left the corral gate and stole softly around a corner of thecabin, determined to steal upon Doubler unawares. Once at the corner, shehalted and peered around. She saw Doubler lying in the open doorway, hisbody twisted into a peculiarly odd position, face down, his armsoutstretched, his legs doubled under him.