The Trail to Yesterday. Seltzer Charles Alden
looked furtively at Duncan, stretched out beside her on the grass. What would he say if he knew? He would not be pleased, she was certain, for during the month that she had been at the Double R – riding out almost daily with him – he had forced her to see that he had taken a liking to her – more, she herself had observed the telltale signs of something deeper than mere liking.
She had not encouraged this, of course, for she was not certain that she liked Duncan, though he had treated her well – almost too well, in fact, for she had at times felt a certain reluctance in accepting his little attentions – such personal service as kept him almost constantly at her side. His manner, too, was ingratiating; he smiled too much to suit her; his presumption of proprietorship over her irritated her not a little.
As she sat beside him on the grass she found herself studying him, as she had done many times when he had not been conscious of her gaze.
He was thirty-two, – he had told her so himself in a burst of confidence – though she believed him to be much older. The sprinkling of gray hair at his temples had caused her to place his age at thirty-seven or eight. Besides, there were the lines of his face – the set lines of character – indicating established habits of thought which would not show so deeply in a younger face. His mouth, she thought, was a trifle weak, yet not exactly weak either, but full-lipped and sensual, with little curves at the corners which, she was sure, indicated either vindictiveness or cruelty, perhaps both.
Taken altogether his was not a face to trust fully; its owner might be too easily guided by selfish considerations. Duncan liked to talk about himself; he had been talking about himself all the time that Sheila had sat beside him reviewing the mental picture. But apparently he had about exhausted that subject now, and presently he looked up at her, his eyes narrowing quizzically.
“You have been here a month now,” he said. “How do you like the country?”
“I like it,” she returned.
She was looking now at the other picture, watching the shimmer of the sun on the distant mountain peaks.
“It improves,” he said, “on acquaintance – like the people.” He flashed a smile at her, showing his teeth.
“I haven’t seen very many people,” she returned, not looking at him, but determined to ignore the personal allusion, to which, plainly, he had meant to guide her.
“But those that you have seen?” he persisted.
“I have formed no opinions.”
She had formed an opinion, though, a conclusive one – concerning Dakota. But she had no idea of communicating it to Duncan. Until now, strangely enough, she had had no curiosity concerning him. Bitter hatred and resentment had been so active in her brain that the latter had held no place for curiosity. Or at least, if it had been there, it had been a subconscious emotion, entirely overshadowed by bitterness. Of late, though her resentment toward Dakota had not abated, she had been able to review the incident of her marriage to him with more composure, and therefore a growing curiosity toward the man seemed perfectly justifiable. Curiosity moved her now as she smiled deliberately at Duncan.
“I have seen no one except your sister, a few cowboys, and yourself. I haven’t paid much attention to the cowboys, I like your sister, and I am not in the habit of telling people to their faces what I think of them. The country does not appear to be densely populated. Are there no other ranches around here – no other cattlemen?”
“The Double R ranch covers an area of one hundred and sixty square miles,” said Duncan. “The ranchhouse is right near the center of it. For about twenty miles in every direction you won’t find anybody but Double R men. There are line-camps, of course – dugouts where the men hang out over night sometimes – but that’s all. To my knowledge there are only two men with shacks around here, and they’re mostly of no account. One of them is Doubler – Ben Doubler – who hangs out near Two Forks, and the other is a fellow who calls himself Dakota, who’s got a shack about twenty miles down the Ute, a little off the Lazette trail.”
“They are ranchers, I suppose?”
Sheila’s face was averted so that Duncan might not see the interest in her eyes, or the red which had suddenly come into her cheeks.
“Ranchers?” There was a sneer in Duncan’s laugh. “Well, you might call them that. But they’re only nesters. They’ve got a few head of cattle and a brand. It’s likely they’ve put their brands on quite a few of the Double R cattle.”
“You mean – ” began Sheila in a low voice.
“I mean that I think they’re rustlers – cattle thieves!” said Duncan venomously.
The flush had gone from Sheila’s cheeks; she turned a pale face to the Double R manager.
“How long have these men lived in the vicinity of the Double R?”
“Doubler has been hanging around here for seven or eight years. He was here when I came and mebbe he’s been here longer. Dakota’s been here about five years. He bought his brand – the Star – from another nester – Texas Blanca.”
“They’ve been stealing the Double R cattle, you say?” questioned Sheila.
“That’s what I think.”
“Why don’t you have them arrested?”
Duncan laughed mockingly. “Arrested! That’s good. You’ve been living where there’s law. But there’s no law out here; no law to cover cattle stealing, except our own. And then we’ve got to have the goods. The sheriff won’t do anything when cattle are stolen, but he acts mighty sudden when a man’s hung for stealing cattle, if the man ain’t caught with the goods.”
“Caught with the goods?”
“Caught in the act of stealing. If we catch a man with the goods and hang him there ain’t usually anything said.”
“And you haven’t been able to catch these men, Dakota and Doubler, in the act of stealing.”
“They’re too foxy.”
“If I were manager of this ranch and suspected anyone of stealing any of its cattle, I would catch them!” There was a note of angry impatience in Sheila’s voice which caused Duncan to look sharply at her. He reddened, suspecting disparagement of his managerial ability in the speech.
“Mebbe,” he said, with an attempt at lightness. “But as a general thing nosing out a rustler is a pretty ticklish proposition. Nobody goes about that work with a whole lot of enthusiasm.”
“Why?” There was scorn in Sheila’s voice, scorn in her uplifted chin. But she did not look at Duncan.
“Why?” he repeated. “Well, because it’s perfectly natural for a man to want to live as long as he can. I don’t like them nesters – Dakota especially – and I’d like mighty well to get something on them. But I ain’t taking any chances on Dakota.”
“Why?” Again the monosyllable was pregnant with scorn.
“I forgot that you ain’t acquainted out here,” laughed the manager. “No one is taking any chances with Dakota – not even the sheriff. There’s something about the cuss which seems to discourage a man when he’s close to him – close enough to do any shooting. I’ve seen Dakota throw down on a man so quick that it would make you dizzy.”
“Throw down?”
“Shoot at a man. There was a gambler over in Lazette thought to euchre Dakota. A gunman he was, from Texas, and – well, they carried the gambler out. It was done so sudden that nobody saw it.”
“Killed him?” There was repressed horror in Sheila’s voice.
“No, he wasn’t entirely put out of business. Dakota only made him feel cheap. Creased him.”
“Creased him?”
“Grazed his head with the bullet. Done it intentionally, they say. Told folks he didn’t have any desire to send the gambler over the divide; just wanted to show him