The problem which filled Duncan’s mind as he sat on the edge of the slope overlooking the river was a three-sided one. To reach a conclusion the emotions of fear, hatred, and jealousy would have to be considered in the light of their relative importance.

There was, for example, his fear of Dakota, which must be taken into account when he meditated any action prompted by his jealousy, and his fear of Dakota was a check on his desires, a damper which must control the heat of his emotions. He might hate Dakota, but his fear of him would prevent his taking any action which might expose his own life to risk. On the other hand, jealousy urged him to accept any risk; it kept telling him over and over that he was a fool to allow Dakota to live. But Duncan knew better than to attempt an open clash with Dakota; each time that he had looked into Dakota’s eyes he had seen there something which told him plainer than words of his own inferiority – that he would have no chance in a man-to-man encounter with him. And his latest experience with Dakota had proved that.

However, Duncan’s character would not permit him to concede defeat, and his revenge was not a thing to be considered lightly. Therefore, though he sat for a long time on the slope, meditating over his problem, in the end he smiled. It was not a good smile to see, for his eyes were alight with a crafty, designing gleam, and there was a cruel curve in the lines of his lips. When he finally mounted his pony and rode away from the slope he was whistling.

During the next few days he did not see much of Sheila, for he avoided the ranchhouse as much as possible. He rode out with Langford many times, and though he covertly questioned the Double R owner concerning the affair with Doubler he could gain no satisfying information. Langford’s reticence further aggravated the passions which rioted in his heart, and finally one afternoon when they rode up to the ranchhouse his curiosity could be held in check no longer, and he put the blunt question:

“What have you done about Doubler?”

Langford’s shifting eyes rested for the fraction of a second on the face of his manager, and then the old, bland smile came into his own and he answered smoothly: “Nothing.”

“I have been thinking,” said Duncan carelessly, but with a sharp side glance at his employer, “that it wouldn’t be a half bad idea to set a gunman on Doubler – a man like Dakota, for instance.”

The manager saw Langford’s lips straighten a little, and his eyes flashed with a sudden fire. The expression on Langford’s face strengthened the conviction already in Duncan’s mind concerning the motive of his employer’s visit to Dakota.

“I don’t think I care to have any dealings with Dakota,” said Langford shortly.

Duncan’s eyes blazed again. “I reckon if you’d go talk to him,” he persisted, turning his head so that Langford could not see the suppressed rage in his eyes, “you might be able to make a deal with him.”

“I don’t wish to deal with him. I have decided not to bother Doubler at present. And I have no desire to talk with Dakota. Frankly, my dear Duncan, I don’t like the man.”

“You been in the habit of forming opinions of men you’ve never talked to?” said Duncan. He could not keep the sneer out of his voice.

Langford noticed it and laughed softly.

“It is my recollection that a certain man of my acquaintance advised me at length of Dakota’s shortcomings,” he said significantly. “For me to talk to Dakota after that would be to consider this man’s words valueless. I will have nothing to do with Dakota. That is,” he added, “unless you have altered your opinion of him.”

Duncan did not reply, and he said nothing more to Langford on the subject, but he had discovered that for some reason Langford had chosen to keep the knowledge of his visit to Dakota secret, and Duncan’s suspicions that the visit concerned Doubler became a conviction. Filled with resentment over Langford’s attitude toward him, and with his mind definitely fixed upon the working out of his problem, Duncan decided to visit Doubler.

He chose a day when Langford had ridden away to a distant cow camp, and as when he was following the Double R owner, he did not ride the beaten trail but kept behind the ridges and in the depressions, and when he came within sight of Doubler’s cabin he halted to reconnoiter. A swift survey of the corral showed him a rangy, piebald pony, which he knew to belong to Dakota. As the animal had on a bridle and a saddle he surmised that Dakota’s visit would not be of long duration, and having no desire to visit Doubler in the presence of his rival, he shunted his own horse off the edge of a sand dune and down into the bed of a dry arroyo. Urging the animal along this, he presently reached a sand flat on whose edge arose a grove of fir-balsam and cottonwood.

For an hour, deep in the grove, he watched the cabin, and at length he saw Dakota come out; saw a smile on his face; heard him laugh. His lips writhed at the sound, and he listened intently to catch the conversation which was carried on between the two men, but the distance was too great. However, he was able to judge from the actions of the two that their relations were decidedly friendly, and this discovery immediately raised a doubt in his mind as to the correctness of his deductions.

Yet the doubt did not seriously affect his determination to carry out the plan he had in mind, and when a few moments after coming out of the cabin, Dakota departed down the river trail, Duncan slowly rode out of the grove and approached the cabin.

Doubler stood in the open doorway, looking after Dakota, and when the latter finally disappeared around a bend in the river the nester turned and saw Duncan. Instantly he stepped inside the cabin door, reappearing immediately, holding a rifle. Duncan continued to ride forward, raising one hand, with the palm toward Doubler, as a sign of the peacefulness of his intentions. The latter permitted him to approach, though he held the rifle belligerently.

“I want to talk,” said Duncan, when he had come near enough to make himself heard.

“Pull up right where you are, then,” commanded Doubler. He was silent while Duncan drew his pony to a halt and sat motionless in the saddle looking at him. Then his voice came with a truculent snap:

“You alone?”

Duncan nodded.

“Where’s your new boss?” sarcastically inquired Doubler. “Ain’t you scared he’ll git lost – runnin’ around alone without anyone to look after him?”

“I ain’t his keeper,” returned Duncan shortly.

Doubler laughed unbelievingly. “You was puttin’ in a heap of your time bein’ his keeper, the last I saw of you,” he declared coldly.

“Mebbe I was. We’ve had a falling out.” The venom in Duncan’s voice was not at all pretended. “He’s double crossed me.”

“Double crossed you?” There was disbelief and suspicion in Doubter’s laugh. “How’s he done that? I reckoned you was too smart for anyone to do that to you?” The sarcasm in this last brought a dark red into Duncan’s face, but he successfully concealed his resentment and smiled.

“That’s all right,” he said; “I’ve got more than that coming from you. I’m telling you about what he done to me if you ain’t got any objections to me getting off my horse.”

“Tell me from where you are.” In spite of the coldness in the nester’s voice there was interest in his eyes. “Mebbe you an’ him have had a fallin’ out, but I ain’t takin’ any chances on you bein’ my friend – not a durned chance.”

“That’s right. I don’t blame you for not wanting to take a chance, and I’m not pretending to be your friend. And I sure ain’t any friendly to Langford. He’s double crossed me, but I ain’t telling how he done it – that’s between him and me. But I want to tell you something that will interest you a whole lot. It’s about some guy which is trying to double cross you. To prove that I ain’t thinking to plug you when you ain’t looking I’m leaving my gun here.” He drew out his six-shooter and stuck it behind his slicker, dismounted, and threw the reins over the pony’s head.

In silence Doubler suffered him to approach, though he kept his rifle ready in his hand and his eyes still continued to wear a belligerent expression.

“You and me ain’t been what you might call friendly for a long time,” offered Duncan when he had halted a few feet from Doubler. “We’ve had words, but I’ve never tried to take any mean advantage of you – which I might have done if I’d wanted to.” He smiled ingratiatingly.

“We ain’t goin’ to go over what’s happened between us,” declared Doubler coldly. “We’re lettin’ that go by. If you’ll stick to the palaver that you spoke about mebbe we’ll be able to git along for a minute or two. Meanwhile, you’ll excuse me if I keep this here gun in shape for you if you try any monkey business.”

Duncan masked his dislike of Doubler under a deprecatory smile. “That’s right,” he agreed. “We’ll let what’s happened pass without talking about it. What’s between us now is something different. I’ve never pretended to be your friend, and I’m not pretending to be your friend now. But I’ve always been square with you, and I’m square now. Can you say that about him?” He jerked his thumb in the direction of the river trail, on which Dakota had vanished some time before.

“Him?” inquired Doubler. “You mean Dakota?” He caught Duncan’s nod and smiled slowly. “I reckon you’re some off your range,” he said. “There ain’t no comparin’ Dakota to you – he’s always been my friend.”

“A man’s got a friend one day and he’s an enemy the next,” said Duncan mysteriously.

“Meanin’?”

“Meaning that Dakota ain’t so much of a friend as you think he is.”

Doubler’s lips grew straight and hard. “I reckon that ends the palaver,” he said coldly, while he fingered the rifle in his hand significantly. “If that’s what you come for you can be hittin’ the breeze right back to the Double R. I’m givin’ you – ”

“You’re traveling too fast,” remonstrated Duncan, a hoarseness coming into his voice. “You’ll talk different when you hear what I’ve got to say. I reckon you know that Langford ain’t any friendly to you?”

“I don’t see – ” began Doubler.

He was interrupted by Duncan’s harsh laugh. “Of course you don’t see,” he said. “I’ve come over here to make you open your eyes. Langford ain’t no friend of yours, and I reckon that you wouldn’t consider any man your friend which sets in his cabin a couple of hours talking to Langford, about you?”

“Meanin’ 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 in any cold deck on you.”

“How do you know Dakota’s tryin’ 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. “I reckon you know that Langford wants your land mighty bad, don’t you? 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 to me about it. He saw Dakota send Blanca over the divide and he’s some impressed by his shooting. He figures that if Dakota puts one man out of business he’ll put another out.”

“Meanin’ 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 jaws snapped. “You’re a liar!” he said; “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 Doubler 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.

“Maybe I’m a liar,” repeated Duncan. “But if you’ll use your brain a little you’ll see that things look bad for you. Dakota’s been here. Did he tell you about Langford coming to see him? I reckon not,” he added as he caught Doubler’s blank stare; “he’d likely not 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 – 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 toward 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. Leastways, he done a heap of laffing over it. Likely Langford’s promised him a heap of dust to do the job. Mebbe he’s your friend, but if I was you I wouldn’t give him no chance to say I 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 a heap friendly – as usual – mebbe more so.”

“I reckon that when a man goes gunning for another man he don’t advertise a whole lot,” observed Duncan insinuatingly.

“No,” agreed Doubler, staring blankly into the distance where he had last seen his supposed friend, “a man don’t generally do a heap of advertisin’ when he’s out lookin’ for a man.” He sat for a time staring straight ahead, and then he suddenly looked up, his eyes filled with a savage fierceness. “How do I know you ain’t lyin’ to me?” he demanded, glaring 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. “But I reckon you’re twenty-one and ought to have your eye-teeth cut. Anyway, you ought to know that a man like Langford, who’s wanting your land, don’t go to talk with a man like Dakota, who’s some on the shoot, for nothing. 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? Mebbe he’s from the East, too. I’m telling you one thing,” added Duncan, and now his voice was filled with passion, “Dakota and Sheila Langford are pretty thick. She makes believe that she don’t like him, but he saved her from a quicksand, and she’s been running with him considerable. Takes his part, too; does it, but she makes you believe that she don’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 in 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 parent’s 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? And even if Langford were only her stepfather, would she not have felt it 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 anyway, 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 his six-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 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 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 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 butte 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 attitude 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 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 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 assured 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 pronounced. “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 embarrassed 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?”