"I've done all I could," he said. "You know how you stand and the rest of it is up to you. 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 still 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.

CHAPTER XII

A MEETING ON THE RIVER TRAIL

About ten o'clock in the morning of a perfect day Sheila left the Double R ranchhouse for a ride to the Two Forks to visit Doubler. This new world into 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 gra.s.s 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 a.s.sociate 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 toward 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 the others.

For Duncan she had developed a decided dislike which amounted almost to hatred. She had been able to see 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 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 when on the edge of the b.u.t.te overlooking the river Duncan had voiced his suspicions that her father had planned to remove Doubler, Sheila 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 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 att.i.tude that day had created.

Many times, watching him, Sheila 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 to 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 added two and two, he had told her when furnishing her with the threads out of which he had constructed the fabric of his suspicions, and 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 pa.s.sed 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 able to lift a hand in protest or 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 a.s.sured herself that there was nothing attractive in either. Both had wronged her--Dakota deliberately and maliciously; her father had placed the bar of a 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, giving her a choice of two evils. 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 formerly, had been almost attractive to her, in those moments when she could 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 he had met her reproaches she felt that he felt 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 a 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 latter 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've 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 fiver 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 toward forgiving him. But there was only mockery in his voice and words and her resentment against him grew. Mingling with it, moreover, 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--of savages!"

"Indians, you mean, I reckon? Well, no, there are none around here--excepting over near Fort Union, on the reservation." He drawled hatefully 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, studying her face. The silence grew painful; she moved uneasily under his direct gaze 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 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. "Your rescuer," he corrected.

However, she saw through the artifice, and the bitterness in her voice grew more p.r.o.nounced. "It is needless for you to remind me of our relationship," 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 which she had detected when he had referred to her father during that other occasion at the crossing. It mystified her, and yet within the past few days 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 see through Langford's mask and knew him for what he was. For the first time in her life she experienced a sensation of embarra.s.sed guilt over hearing 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."

A sudden moisture was in her eyes and she did not see Dakota start, did not observe the queer pallor that spread over his face, failed to detect the odd light in his eyes. However, she heard his voice--sharp in 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--I haven't any friends at all," she continued, her voice breaking slightly, as she suddenly realized her entire helplessness before the combined evilness of Duncan, her father, and the man who sat on his pony beside her. A sob shook her, and her hands went to her face, covering her eyes.