 CHAPTER XIII. OF THE TRAIL TO YESTERDAY BY CHARLES ALDEN SELTZER. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. THE SHOT IN THE BACK. For an instant after discovering Doubler, Lyon, and the doorway, she elisted motionless at the corner of the cabin, looking down, wonderingly, at him. She thought at first that he was merely resting, but his body was doubled up so oddly, that a grave doubt rose in her mind. A vague fear clutched at her heart, and she stood rigid, her eyes wide as she looked for some sign that would confirm her fears. And then she saw a moist red patch on his shirt on the right side, just below the shoulder-blade. And it seemed that a band of steel had been suddenly pressed down over her forehead. Something had happened to Doubler. The world reeled. Objects round her danced fantastically. The trees in the grove near her seemed to dip toward her in derision. Her knees sagged, and she held tightly to the corner of the cabin for support in her weakness. She saw it all in a flash. Dakota had been to visit Doubler, and had shot him. She had heard the shot. Duncan had been right, and Dakota, how she despised him now, was probably even now picturing in his imagination the scene of her discovering the nister lying on his own threshold murdered. An anger against him, which arose at the thought, did much to help her regain control of herself. She must be brave now, for there might be still life in Doubler's body, and she went slowly toward him, cringing and shrinking along the wall of the cabin. She touched him first lightly, with the tips of her fingers, calling soft to him in a quavering voice. Becoming more bold, she took hold of him by the left shoulder and shook him slightly, and her heart seemed to leap within her when a faint moan escaped his lips. Her fear fled instantly as she realized that he was alive, that she had not to deal with a dead man. Stifling a quivering sob, she took hold of him again, tugging and pulling at him, trying to turn him over so that she might see his face. She observed that the red patch on his shoulder grew larger with the effort, and her face grew paler with apprehension, but convinced that she must persist, she shut her eyes and tugged desperately at him, finally succeeded in pulling him over on his back. He moaned again, though his face was ashen and lifeless, and with hope filling her heart, she redoubled her efforts and finally succeeded in dragging him inside the cabin out of the sun, where he lay inert, with wide stretched arms, a gruesome figure to the girl. Stifling and exhausted, some stray wisps of hair, sweeping her temples, the rest of it threatening to come tumbling down around her shoulders, she leaned against one of the door-jams, thinking rapidly. She ought to have help, of course, and her thoughts went to Dakota, riding unconcernedly away on the river trail. She could not go to him for assistance. Such a course was not to be considered. She would rather let Doubler die than go to his murderer. She could never have endured the irony of such an action. Besides, she was certain that even were she to go to him, he would find some excuse to refuse her. For having shot the nester, he certainly would do nothing towards bringing the help which might possibly restore him the life. She put aside the thought with a shudder of horror, yet conscious that something must be done for Doubler at once if he was to live. Perhaps it was already too late to go for assistance. There seemed to be but very little life in his body, and trembling with anxiety, she decided that she must render him whatever aid she could. There was not much that she could do to be sure, but if she could do something, she might keep him alive until other help would come. She stood beside the door-jam and watched him for some time, for she dreaded the idea of touching him again. But after a while her courage returned, and she went to him, kneeling down beside him, laying her head on his breast and listening. His heart was beating faintly, but still it was beating, and she rose from him determined. She found a sheath-knife in one of his pockets, and with this she cut the shirt away from the wound, discovering, when she drew the pieces of cloth away, that there was a large round hole in his breast. She came near to swooning when she thought of the red patch on his back, for that seemed to prove that the bullet had gone clear through him. It had missed a vital spot, though, she thought, for it seemed to be rather high on the shoulder. She got some water from a pail that stood just inside the door and with this, and some white cloth, which she tore from one of her skirts, she bathed and banished the wound and laid a wet cloth on his forehead. She tried for some of the water down his throat, but he could not swallow, lying there with closed eyes and drawing his breath in short, painful gasps. After she had worked with him for a quarter of an hour or more, she stood up convinced that she had done all she could do for him, and the next move would be to get a doctor. She had heard Duncan say that it was fifty miles a dry bottom, and she knew that it was at least forty to Lisette. She had never heard anyone mention that there was a doctor nearer, and so, of course, she would have to go to Lisette. Ten miles would make a great difference. She might ride to the double-r ranch house, and she thought of going there, but it was at least ten miles off the Lisette trail, and even though at the double-r she might get a cowboy, to make the ride to Lisette she would be losing much valuable time. She drew a deep breath over the contemplation of the long ride, at best it would take her four hours, but she did not hesitate long and with a last glance at Doubler she was out of the door and walking to the corral, where she unhitched her pony, mounted, and sent the animal over the level toward the crossing, at a sharp gallop. Once over the crossing and on the river trail, where the riding was better, she held the pony to an even, steady pace, one mile, two miles, five or six she rode with her hair flying in the breeze, her cheeks pale, except for a bright red spot in the center of each, which betrayed the excitement under which she was laboring. There was a resolute gleam in her eyes, though, and she rode lightly, helping her pony as much as possible, however the animal was fresh and did not seem to mind the pace, gavorting and lunging up the rises and pulling hard on the reins on the levels, showing a desire to run. She held it in, though, realizing that during the forty-mile ride the animal would have plenty of opportunity to prove its mettle. She reached and passed the quicksand crossing from which she had been pulled by Dakota, the pony running with the sure regularity of a machine, and was on a level which led into some hills directly ahead when the ponies stumbled. She tried the jerkety wrecked with the reins, but in spite of the effort she felt it sink under her, and with the sensation of dismay clutching at her heart she slid out of the saddle. The swift examination showed that her pony's right foreleg was deep in the sand of the trail, and she surmised instantly that it had stepped into a prairie dog-hole. When she went to it and raised its head he looked appealingly at her, and she stifled a groan of sympathy and began to look about for some means to extricate it. She found this no easy task, for the pony's leg was deep in the sand, and when she finally dug a space around it with a branch of a tree, which she procured from a nearby grove, the animal struggled out only to limp badly. The leg she'll have decided, after a quick examination, was not broken but badly sprained, and she knew enough about horses to be certain that the injured pony would never be able to carry her to Lisette. She would be forced to go to the double-R now. There was nothing else that she could do. Standing beside the pony, debating whether she had not better walk than try to ride him, even to the double-R, she heard a clatter of hoofs and turned the seat Dakota riding the trail toward her. He was travelling in the direction she had been travelling, when the accident had happened, and apparently had left the trail somewhere back in the distance, or she would have seen him. Perhaps she speculated, with a flash of dull anger, he had followed her near to Doubler's cabin, perhaps had been near when she had dragged the wounded nester into it. Her first words showed that there was a ground for this suspicion. He drew up beside her and looked at her with a queer smile, and she, aware of his guilt, wondered at his composure. You didn't stay long at Doubler's shack, he said. I was on a ridge, back on the trail of ways, and I saw you hitting the breeze away from there some rapid. I was thinking to intercept you, but you went tearing by so fast that I didn't get a chance. You're in an awful hurry. What's wrong? You ought to know that, she said, bitterly, angry, because of his pretendent serenity. You, you murderer? His face paled instantly, but his voice was clear and sharp. Murderer, he said sternly, who's been murdered. You don't know, of course, she said scornfully, her face flaming, her eyes alight with loathing and contempt. You shot him, and then let me ride on alone to, to find him. Shot, shot in the back, oh! She shuddered at the recollection, held her hands over her eyes for an instant, to keep from looking at the expression of amazement in his eyes. And while she stood, thus, she heard a movement, and withdrew her hands from her eyes to see him standing beside her, so close that his body touched hers. His eyes ablaze with curiosity and interest, and repressed anxiety. She cringed and cried with pain, as he seized her arm and twisted her forcibly around so that she faced him. Stop this fooling and tell me what has happened, he said, with short, incisive accents. Who did you find shot? Who's been murdered? Oh, it was admirable acting, she told herself, as she tore herself away from him and stood back a little, her eyes flashing with scorn and horror. You don't know, of course, she flared. You shot him, shot him in the back, and sent me on to find him. You gloried in the thought of me finding him dead. But he isn't dead, thank God, and will live, if I could get a doctor, to accuse you. She pointed a finger at him, but he ignored it, and took a step toward her, his eyes cold and boring into hers. Who he demanded who? Ben Doubler, oh, she cried, in an excess of rage and horror, to think that I should have to tell you. But if he heard her last words, he paid no attention to them, for he was suddenly at his pony's side, buckling the cinches tighter. She watched him, fascinated, at the repressed energy of his movements, and became so interested that she started when he suddenly looked up at her. He isn't dead then, he said, rapidly, sharply, the words coming with short, metallic snaps. You are going to lizzet for a doctor? I'm glad I happened along, glad I saw you. I'll be able to make better time than you. Where are you going, she demanded, scarcely having heard his words, though aware that he was preparing to leave. She took a step forward, and seized his pony's bridal rain, her eyes blazing with wrath over the thought that he should attempt to deceive her with so bold a ruse. For the doctor, he said shortly, there's no time for melodramatics, ma'am. If doublers badly heard, will you please let go of that bridal? Do you think she demanded her cheeks aflame, her hair loosened from the long ride, straggling over her temples, and giving her a singularly dishevelled appearance, that I'm going to let you go for the doctor, you? This isn't a case where your feelings should be considered, ma'am, he said. If Ben Doubler has been hurt like you think he has, I'm going to get the doctor mighty sudden, whether you think I ought to or not. You won't, she declared, stamping a foot furiously. You shot him, and now you want to disarm suspicion by going after the doctor for him, but you won't, I won't let you. You'll have to, he said rapidly. The doctor isn't that, was said. He's over on Carrizo Creek. Taking care of Dave Morland's wife was down bad. I saw Dave yesterday, and he was telling me about her, that the doctors will stay there until she is out of danger. You don't know where Morland's place is. Be sensible now, he said, gruffly. I'll talk to you later about you suspecting me. You shan't go, she protested. I'm going myself. I will find Morland's place. I can't let you go. It would be horrible. For answer he swung down quickly from the saddle, seized her by the waist, disengaged her hands from the bridal rain, and picking her up bodily, carried her, struggling and fighting and striking blindly at his face to the side of the trail. When he set her down, he pinned her arms to her sides. He did not speak, and she was entirely helpless in his grasp. But when he released his grasp of her arms, and tried to leave, she seized a collar of his vest. With a grim laugh, he slipped out of the garment, leaving it dangling from her hand. Keep it for me, ma'am, he said, with a cold chuckle, but get back to Doubler's cabin and see what you can do for him. You'll be able to do a lot. I'll be back with the doctor before sundown. In an instant he was at his pony's side. Mounting the animal at a run, and in a brief space, had vanished around a turn in the trail, leaving a cloud of dusk to mark the spot where Sheila had seen him disappear. For a long time Sheila stood beside the trail, looking at the spot where he had disappeared, holding his vest with an unconscious grasp. Looking down she saw it, and with an exclamation of rage threw it from her, watching it fall into the sand. But after an instant she went over, and took it up, recovering at the same time, a black leather pocket memoranda which had slipped out of it. She put the memoranda back into one of the pockets, handling both the book and the vest gingerly, for she felt an aversion to touching them. She conquered this feeling long enough to tuck the vest into the slicker behind the saddle, and then she mounted and sent her pony up the trail towards Doubler's cabin. She found Doubler where she had left him, and he was still unconscious. The water-pail was empty, and she went down to the river and refilled it, returning to the cabin and again, bathing and bandaging Doubler's wound, and placing a fresh cloth on his forehead. For a time she sat watching the injured man, revolving the incident of her discovery of him in her mind, going over and over again the gruesome details. She did not dwell long on the latter, for she could not prevent her mind reviewing Doubler's words and actions, his satanic cleverness in pretending to be on the verge of taking her into his confidence. His prediction that she would understand, when this business was over, she did not need the weight she understood now. Finded the silence in the cabin irksome, she rose, placed Doubler's head in a more comfortable position, and went outside into the bright sunshine of the afternoon. She took a turn around the corral, abstractedly watched the awkward antics of several yearlings which were penned in a corner, and then returned to the cabin door where she sat on the edge of the step. Near the side of the cabin door, leaning against the wall, she saw a rifle. She started, not remembering to have seen it there before, but presently she found courage to take it up gingerly, turning it over and over in her hands. Some initials have been carved on the stock, and she examined them, making them out finely, as B.D. Doubler's. Examining the weapons she found an empty shell in the chamber, and she nearly dropped the rifle, when the thought struck her that perhaps Doubler had been shot with it. She set it down quickly, shuddering, and for diversion, walked to her pony, examining the injured leg and rubbing it, the pony knickering gratefully. Returning to the cabin she sat for a long time on the step, but she did not again take up the rifle. Several times while she sat on the step, she heard Doubler moan, and once she got up and went to him, again bathed in his wound, but returning instantly to the doorstep, for she could not bear the silence of the interior. Suddenly remembering Dakota's vest and the black leather memoranda, which had dropped from one of the pockets, she got up again and went to the bench where she had laid the garment, taking out the book and regarding it with some curiosity. There was nothing on the cover to suggest what might be the nature of its contents. Time had worn away any printing that might have been on it. She hesitated, debating the propriety of an examination. But her curiosity got the better of her, and with a sharp glance at Doubler, she turned her back and opened the book. Almost the first object that caught her gaze was a piece of paper, detached from the leaves, with some writing on it. The writing seemed unimportant, but as she turned it, intending to replace it between the leaves of the book, she saw her father's name, and she read, holding her breath with dread, for fresh in her mind was Duncan's charge, that her father had entered into an agreement with Dakota for the murder of Doubler. She read the words several times, standing beside the bench, and swaying back and forth, a sudden weakness gripping her. One month from today ran the words I promised to pay to Dakota, the sum of six thousand dollars in consideration of his rights and interest in the star brand, providing that within one month from date he persuades Ben Doubler to leave Union County. Signed, David Dowd Langford. There it was, conclusive, damning evidence of her father's guilt and of Dakota's. How cleverly that last clause covered the evil intent of the document. Sheila read it again and again with dry eyes. Her horror and grief were too great for tears. She felt that the discovery of the paper removed the last lingering doubt, and though she had been partially prepared for proof, she had not been prepared to have it thrust so quickly and convincingly before her. How long she sat on the doorstep she did not know or care, for at the stroke she had lost all interest in everything in the country. Even his people interested her only to the point of loathing. They were murderers, even her father. Time represented to her nothing now, except the dreary space which, if she endured, would bring the moment in which she could leave. For within the last few minutes she seemed to have been robbed of all things which had made existence here endurable, and she was determined to end it all. When she finally got up and looked about her, she saw that the sun had traveled quite a distance down the sky. The sorrowful smile reached her face as she watched it. It was going away and before it could complete another circle she would go to, back to the east from where she had come, where there were at least some friends who could be depended upon to commit no atrocious crimes. No plan of action formed in her mind. She could not think lucidly with the knowledge that her father was convicted of complicity in an attempted murder. Would she be able to face her father again, to bid him good-bye? She thought not. It would be better for both if she departed without him being aware of her going. He would not care, she told herself bitterly, lately had withheld from her all those little evidences of affection to which she had grown accustomed. And it would not be hard for him. He would not miss her. Perhaps would even be glad for her absence. For then he could continue his murderous schemes without fear of her meddling with them. There was a fascination in the paper on which was written the signed agreement. She read it carefully again, and then concealed it in her bodice, pinning it there, so that it would not become lost. Then she rose and went into the cabin, placing the memoranda on a shelf where Dakota would be sure to find it when he returned with the doctor. She did not care to read anything contained in it. Marvelling at her coolness, she went outside again, and resumed her seat on the doorstep. It was not such a blow to her, after all. And there arose in her mind, as she sat on the step of wonder, as to how her father would act, were she to confront him with the evidence of his guilt. Perhaps she would not show him the paper. But she finally became convinced that she must talk to him, must learn from him in some manner, his connection with the attempted murder of Doubler. Then after receiving from him some sign, which would convince her, she would take her belongings and depart for the East, leaving him to his own devices. Looking up at the sun, she saw that it still had quite a distance to travel before it reached the mountains. Stealing into the cabin, she once more fixed the bandages on the wounded man. Then she went out, mounted her pony, and rode through the shadow water of the crossing toward the double-r ranch. End of CHAPTER XIII of the trail to yesterday by Charles Alden Seltzer. This Librivox recording is in the public domain. Lankford lays off the mask. The sun was still an hour above the horizon, when Sheila rode up to the corral gates. While removing the saddle and bridle from her pony, she noted with satisfaction that the horse, which her father had been accustomed to ride, was inside the corral. Therefore, her father was somewhere about. Hanging the saddle and bridle from a rail at the corral fence, she went into the house to find that Lankford was not there. Duncan's sister curtly informed her that she had seen him a few minutes before, down at the stables. Sheila went into the office, which was a lean-to addition to the ranch house, and seating herself at her father's desk, picked up a six-month-old copy of a magazine and tried to read. Finding that she could not concentrate her thoughts, she dropped the magazine into her lap and leaned back with a sigh. From where she sat she had a good view of the stables, and fifteen minutes later, while she still watched, she saw Lankford come out of one of the stable doors and walk toward the house. She felt absolutely no emotion whatever over his coming. There was only a mild curiosity in her mind, as to the manner in which she would take the news of her intended departure from the double-R. She observed, with a sort of detached interest, that he looked twice at her saddle and bridle as he passed them, and so, of course, he surmised that she had come in from her ride. For a moment she lost sight of him behind some buildings, and then he opened the door of the office and entered. He stopped on the threshold for an instant and looked at her, evidently expecting her to offer her usual greeting. He frowned slightly when it did not come and then smiled. Hello, he said cordially, you are back, I see, and tired. He had it, noting her position. He walked over and laid a hand on her forehead, and she involuntarily shrank from his touch, shuddering, for the hand which she had placed on her forehead was the right one, the hand, with which she had signed the agreement with Dakota, Doubler's death warrant. Don't please, she said. Crossed to, he said, jocularly. Just tired, she said, listlessly, and with an air of great indifference. He looked critically at her for an instant, then smiled again, and dragged the chair over near a window, and looked out, apparently little concerned, over her manner. But she noted that he glanced furtively at her several times, and that he seemed greatly satisfied over something. She wondered if he had seen Dakota, if he knew that the latter had already attempted to carry out the agreement to persuade Doubler to leave the country. Ride far, he questioned, turning and facing her, his voice casual, not very far, the river trail, Sheila nodded, and saw a sudden interest flash into his eyes. Which way, he asked quickly. Down she returned, she had not lied, for she had ridden down, and though she had also ridden up the river trail, she preferred to let him guess a little, for she resented the curiosity in his voice, and was determined to broach the subject which she had in mind in her own time, and after the manner that suited her best. He had not been interested in her for a long time, had not appeared to care where she spent her time. Why should he betray interest now? She saw a mysterious smile on his face, a new before he spoke, that his apparent interest in her was not genuine, that he was merely curious. Then you haven't heard the news, he said softly. He was looking out of the window now, and she could not see his face. She took up the magazine, and turned several pages pretending to read, but in reality waiting for him to continue. When he made no effort to do so, her own curiosity got the better of her. What news she questioned without looking at him? About doubler, he said, he's dead. Her surprise was genuine, and her hands trembled as the leaves of the magazine fluttered and closed, had the nester died since she had left his cabin. A moment thought convinced her that this could not be the explanation, for assuredly she would have seen anyone who arrived at Doubler's cabin. She had scanned the surrounding country before and after leaving the vicinity of the crossing, and had seen no signs of anyone. Besides, Lankford's news seemed to have abided with him a long time. It seemed to her that he had known it for hours. She could not tell why she felt this, but she was certain that he had not received word recently, within an hour or two at any rate, unless he had seen Dakota. This seemed to be the secret of his knowledge, and the more she considered the latter's excitement during her meeting with him on the trail, the more fully she became convinced that Lankford had talked to him. The latter's anxiety to relieve her of her task of riding to Lisette for the doctor had been spurious. Had he merely wanted to be the first to carry the news of Doubler's death to Lankford, and after leaving her, he had undoubtedly taken a roundabout trail for the double R, possibly by this time, he had settled with Lankford and was on his way out of the country. As she said, turning to Lankford, who? In her momentary excitement, she had come very near to asking him, who had brought him the news. She hesitated, for she saw a glint of surprise and suspicion in his eyes. My dear girl, did I say that he had been killed? His smile was without humor, evidently, he had expected, that she had been about to ask who had killed the nester. He looked at her steadily, an intolerant smile playing about the corners of his mouth. I'm aware that you have been suspicious of me ever since you heard that I had a quarrel with Doubler, but thank God, my dear, I have not that crime to answer for. Doubler, however, has been killed, murdered. Sheiller repressed a desire to shudder and turned from Lankford so that he would not be able to see the disgust that had come into her eyes over the discovery that, in addition to being a murderer, her father was the most despicable of all living things. A hypocrite, it required all her composure to be able to look at him again. Who killed him, she asked evenly? Dakota, my dear. Dakota, she pronounced the name abstractedly, for she was surprised at the admission. How do you know that Dakota killed him, she said, looking straight at him? He changed color, though his manner was still smooth and his smile bland. Duncan was fortunate enough to be in the vicinity when the deed was committed, he told her, and he saw Dakota shoot him in the back with his own rifle, too. There was a quality in his voice which hinted at satisfaction, a peculiar emphasis on the word fortunate, which had caused Sheiller to wonder why he should consider it fortunate that Duncan had seen the murder done, when it would have been much better for the success of the Dakota's and her father's scheme if there had been no witness to it at all. However continued Langford, with a sigh of resignation, that caused Sheiller a shiver of repugnance and horror, Doubler's death will not be a very great loss to the country. Duncan tells me that he has long been suspected of cattle-stealing, and sooner or later he would have been caught in the act, as for Dakota, he laughed harshly, with a note of suppressed triumph that filled her with an unaccountable resentment. Dakota is an evil in that country, too. Do you remember how he killed that Mexican half-breed over Lisette that day? The day I came, wanton murderer. I call it, such a man is a danger and a menace, and I shall not be sorry to see him hanged for killing Doubler. Then you will have Duncan charge Dakota with the murder? Of course, my dear, why shouldn't I? Assuredly, you would not allow Dakota to go unpunished. No, said Sheiller, Doubler's murderer should be punished. Two things were now fixed in her mind, as certainties. Dakota had not been to see her father since she had left him on the river trail. He had not received his blood money, would never receive it. Her father had no intention of living up to his agreement with Dakota, and intended to allow him to be hanged. She thought of the signed agreement in her bodice. Langford had given it to Dakota, but she had little doubt that in the case Dakota still had it in his possession, and dared produce it. Langford would deny having made it, would probably term it a forgery. It was harmless, too. Who would be likely to intimate that the cause regarding Dakota and Doubler to leave the country meant that Langford had hired Dakota to kill the nester? Sheiller sat silent, looking at Langford, wondering how it had happened that he had been able to masquerade so long before her. Why she had permitted herself the love of being so depraved, so entirely lacking in principle? But a thrill of hope swept over her. Perhaps Doubler would not die. She had been considering the situation from the viewpoint of the nester's death. But if Dakota had really been an earnest and had gone for a doctor, there was a chance that the tragedy, which seemed so imminent, would be turned into something less serious. Immediately her spirits rose, and she was able to smile quietly at Langford when he continued. Dakota will be hung, of course, decency demands it. When Duncan came to me with the news, I sent him instantly to Lisette to inform the sheriff of what had happened. Undoubtedly he will take Dakota into custody at once. But not for murder, said Sheiller evenly, on able to keep a quiver of triumph out of her voice. Not, said Langford startled. Why not? Because, returned Sheiller, enjoying the sudden consternation that was revealed in her father's face, and drawing her words a little, to further confound him, because Doubler isn't dead. Not dead. Langford's jaws sagged, and he sat looking at Sheiller with wide, staring, vacuous eyes. Not dead, he repeated hoarsely. Why Duncan told me he had examined him. That he had been shot through the lungs, and had led the death before he left him. How do you know that he is not dead, he suddenly demanded, leaning toward her, a wild hope in his eyes. I went to his cabin before noon, said Sheiller. I found him lying in the doorway. He had been shot through the right side, near the shoulder, but not through the lung. And he was still alive. I dragged him into the cabin, and did what I could for him. Then I started for the doctor. For the doctor, he said incredulously. Then how does it happen that you are here? You couldn't possibly ride the lazette and return by this time. I believe I said I started for the doctor, said Sheiller, with a quiet smile. She was enjoying his excitement. I met Dakota on the trail, and he went. Langford continued to stare at her. It seemed that he could not realize the truth. Then suddenly he was out of his chair, and standing over her. His face bloated poisonously, his eyes ablaze with a malignant light. M.U.E. shrieked, This is what comes from your infernal meddling. What business had you to interfere? Why didn't you let him die, I have a notion? His hands clenched and unclenched before her eyes, and she sat with blanched face, certain that he was about to attack her, perhaps killer. She did not seem to care much, however, and looked up into his face steadily and defiantly. After a moment, however, he regained control of himself, leaving her side and pacing rapidly back and forth into the office, cursing bitterly. Curiously, Sheiller was not surprised at this outburst. She had rather expected it, since she had become aware of his real character. M.U.E. was surprised to discover that he had dropped pretense altogether. He was bound to do that sooner or later. Her only surprise was at her own feelings. She did not experience the slightest concern over him. It was as though she were talking to a stranger. She was interested to the point of taking a grim enjoyment out of his confusion. But beyond that, she was not interested in anything. It made little difference to her what became of Lankford to Coda, Duncan any of them, except Doubler. She intended to return to the Nestor's cabin to help the doctor make him comfortable, for he had been the only person in the country who had shown her any kindness. He was the only one who had not wronged her, and she was grateful to him. Lankford was standing over her again, his breath coming short and fast. Where did you see to Coda, he questioned hoarsely, answer he added, when she did not speak immediately. On the river trail, before you found Doubler, before, yes, and after, I met him twice. She discerned his motive in asking these questions. But it made no difference to her, and she answered truthfully. She did not intend to shield to Coda. The fact that Doubler had not been killed outright did not lessen the gravity of the offense in her eyes. Before you found Doubler, Lankford's voice came, with a vicious snap. You met him coming from Doubler's cabin, I suppose. Yes, she answered weirdly. I met him coming from there. I was on the trail going there, and I heard this shot. I know that Coda killed him. Lankford made an exclamation of satisfaction. Well, it isn't so bad after all. You'll have to be a witness against Coda, and very likely Doubler will die, probably as dead by this time, and will certainly be dead before the Lisette doctor can reach his cabin. No, my dear, he added, smiling at Sheila. It isn't so bad after all. Sheila rose. Her poignant anger against him was equaled only by her disgust. He expected her to bear witness against Coda. Desired her to participate in his scheme, to fasten upon the latter the entire blame for the commission of a crime in which he himself was the moving factor. I shall not bear witness against him, she told Lankford coldly, for I'm going away back east to-morrow. Don't imagine that I have been in complete ignorance of what has been going on, that I have been unaware of the part you have played in the shooting of Doubler. I have known for quite a long time that you had decided to have Doubler murdered, and only recently I learned that you hired Coda to kill him, and this morning, when I met Coda on the river trail, he dropped this from a pocket of his vest. She fumbled at her bodice and produced the signed agreement holding it out to him. As she expected, he repudiated it, though his face paled a little as he read it. This is a forgery, my dear, he said, in the old smooth, even voice that she had grown to despise. No, she returned calmly, it's not a forgery. You forget that only a minute ago, you practically admitted it to be a true agreement by telling me that I should have allowed Doubler to die. You are an accomplice in the shooting of Doubler, and if I am compelled to testify in the Coda's trial, I shall tell everything I know. She watched while he lighted a match, held it to the paper, smiling as the looking flames consumed it. He was entirely composed now, and through the gathering darkness of the interior of the office, she saw a sneer come into his face. I shall do all I can to assist you, to discontinue the associations which are so distasteful to you. You will start for the East immediately, I presume. Tomorrow, she said, in the afternoon, I shall have my trunks taken over to Lisette in the morning. In the morning, said Langford puzzled, why not ride over with them in the afternoon in the buck-board? I shall ride my pony, the man can return him. She took a step toward the door, but halted before reaching it, turning to look back at him. I don't think it is necessary for me to say good-bye. But you have not treated me badly in the past, and I thank you for that, and wish you well. Where are you going? She led walk to the door, and stood with one hand on the latch. He came and stood beside her, a suppressed excitement in his manner, his eyes gleaming brightly in the dusk which had suddenly fallen. I think I told you that before. Ben Dubber is alone, and he needs care. I'm going to him, to stay with him until the doctor arrives. He will die if someone does not take care of him. You are determined to continue to meddle, are you, he said? His voice quivering with anger, his lips working strangely. I am sick of your damned interference, sick of it, I tell you. His voice lowered to a harsh, throaty whisper. You won't leave this office until tomorrow afternoon, do you hear? What business is it of yours if Dubber dies? Sheela did not answer, but pressed the door latch. His arm suddenly interposed, his fingers closing on her arm, gripping it so tightly, that she cried out with pain. Then suddenly his fingers were boring into her shoulders. She was twisted, helpless in his brutal grasp, and flung bodily into the chair beside the desk, where she sat, sobbing breathlessly. She did not cry out again but sat motionless, her lips quivering, rubbing her shoulders, where his iron fingers had sunk into the flesh. Her soul filled with a revolting horror of his brutality. For a moment there was no movement. Then, in the semi-darkness, she saw him leave the door, watched him, as he approached the shelf on which stood a kerosene lamp, lifted the chimney, and applied a match to the wick. For an instant after replacing the chimney, he stood full in the glare of light, his face contorted with rage, his eyes gleaming with venom. "'Now you know exactly where I stand, you, you hussy,' he said. Grinning satirically, as she winced under the insult, I'm your father, damn you. Your father, do you hear? And I'll not have you going back east to gab and gossip about me. You'll stay here and you'll bear witness against Dakota, and you'll keep quiet about me. He was trembling horribly, as he came close to her, and his breath was coughing in his throat shrilly. "'I won't do anything of the kind,' Sheila got to her feet, and stood rigid with anger, her eyes flaming defiance. I am going to Doubler's cabin this minute, and if you molest me again, I shall go to the sheriff with my story.' He seemed about to attack her again, and his hands were raised as though the grass per throat, when there came a sound at the door, it swung open, and Dakota stepped in, closing the door behind him. Dakota's face was white, white as it had been, the other day at the quicksand crossing, when Sheila had looked up to see him sitting on his pony watching her. There was an entire absence of excitement in his manner, though. No visible sign that tell, that what he had seen on entering the cabin, disturbed him in the least, yet the whiteness of his face belied this apparent composure. It seemed to Sheila that his eyes betrayed the strong emotion that was gripping him. She retreated to the chair beside the desk and sank into it. Langford had wheeled, and was now facing Dakota, a shallow smile on his face. There was a smile on Dakota's face, too, a mysterious cold, prepared grin, that fascinated Sheila as she watched him. The smile faded a little when he spoke to Langford, his voice vibrating as though he had been running. When you're fighting a woman, Langford, you ought to make sure there isn't a man around. Maintling what Sheila's recognition of the obvious and admirable philosophy of his statement was a realization that Dakota must have been riding hard. There was much dust on his clothing. The scarf at his neck was thick with it. It streaked his face. His voice was husky, his lips dry. Langford did not answer him, stepping back against the desk and regarding him with a mirthless, forced smile which Sheila was certain that he had assumed an order to conceal his fear of the man who stood before him. So you haven't got any thoughts just at this minute, said Dakota, with cold insinuation. You are one of those men who can talk bravely enough to women, but who can't think of anything exactly proper for a man to hear. Well, you'll do your talking later. We looked at Sheila, ignoring Langford completely. I expect you've been wondering, ma'am, why I'm here, when I ought to be over at the two forks, trying to do something for Doubler. Put the doctors there, taking care of him. The reason I've come is that I've found this in Doubler's cabin. He drew out the memoranda which Sheila had placed on the shelf in the cabin, holding it up so that she might see. You took my vest, he went on, and I was looking for it. I found it all right, but something was missing. You're the only one. It's been the Doubler's cabin since I left there, I expect, and it must have been you who opened this book. It isn't in the same shape it was when you pulled it off of me when I was talking to you down there on the river trail. Something had been taking out of it a paper. That's why I rode over here, to see if you've got it. Have you, ma'am?" Sheila pointed mutely to the floor, where a bit of thin, crinkled ash was all that remained of the signed agreement. "'Burned,' said Dakota sharply. He caught Sheila's nod and questioned coldly. Who burned it? My. Mr. Langford returned Sheila. You found it and showed it to him. And he burned it, said Dakota slowly. Why? Don't you see? Sheila's eyes mocked Langford as she intercepted his gaze, which had been fixed on Dakota. It was evidence against him, she concluded, indicating her father. I reckon I see. The smile was entirely gone out of Dakota's face now. And as he turned to look at Langford, there was an expression in his eyes which chilled the latter. You flunked on the agreement, you burned it. Won't recognize it, huh? Well, I'm not any surprised. Langford had partially recovered from the shock, occasioned by Dakota's unexpected appearance, and shook his head in emphatic brazen denial. There was no agreement between us, my friend, he said. The paper I burned was a forgery. Dakota slipped sardin. You called me your friend once before, Langford, he said coldly. Don't do it again, or I'll forget that you are Sheila's father. I reckon she has told you about Dumber. That's why I came over here to get the paper. For I knew that if you'd got hold of it, you'd make short work of it. I know something else. You took a step forward, and tried to hold Langford's gaze, his own eyes filled with a snapping menace. I know that you've sent Duncan to Lisette for the sheriff. The doctor told me he'd met him, Duncan. And the doctor says Duncan told him that you said I fixed Dubbler. How do you know I did? Duncan saw you, said Langford. Dakota's lips curled. Duncan tell you that, he questioned. At Langford's nod, he laughed harshly. So it's a plant, huh? he said, with a mirthless chuckle. You are figuring to get two birds with one stone, Dubbler and me. You've already got Dubbler, or think you have. And now it's my turn. It does look pretty bad for me, for a fact, doesn't it? You've burned the agreement you made with me, so that you could slip out of your obligation. I reckon you think that after the sheriff gets me, you'll be able to take the star without any trouble, like you expect to take Dubbler's land. You've got Duncan the swear, that he saw me do for Dubbler. And you've got your daughter to testify, that she saw me on the trail, coming from Dubbler's cabin, right after she heard the shooting. It was a right clever scheme. But it was my fault for letting you get anything on me. I ought to have known that you'd try some dog trick or other. His voice was coming rapidly, sharply, and was burdened with a lashing sarcasm. Yes, it's a right clever scheme, Mr. Langford, and it ought to be successful. But there's one thing you forgot. I've lived too long in this country to let anyone tangle me up like you'd like to have me. When a man gets double-crossed in this country, he can't go to the law for redress. He makes his own laws. I'm making mine. You've double-crossed me. And damn your hide, I'm going to send you over the divide in a hurry. One of his heavy revolvers leaped from his holster, and showed for an instant in his right hand. Sheila had been watching closely, for a warrant by Dakota's manor. And when she saw his right hand drop to the holster, she sprang upon him, catching the weapon by the muzzle. Langford had covered his face with his hands, and stood beside the desk trembling. And Sheila cried aloud in protest when she saw Dakota draw the weapon that swung at his other hip, holding her off with the hand which she had seized. But when Dakota saw Langford's hand go to his face, he hesitated, smiling scornfully. He turned to Sheila, looking down at her face close to his. His smile softening. I forgot, he said gently. I forgot he is your father. It isn't that, she said. He isn't my father any more. But she looked at Dakota pleadingly. Please don't shoot him. Go, leave the country. You have plenty of time. You have enough to answer for. Please go. For answer he grasped her by the shoulders, swinging her around so that she faced him. And as he had forced her to face him the day on the river trail, there was a regretful admiring gleam in his eyes. You told him, he jerked the thumb toward Langford, that you wouldn't bear witness against me, I heard you. You're a true blue girl, and your father's a fool, or he wouldn't lose you like he's going to lose you. If I had you, I'd take mighty good care that you didn't get away from me. You've given me some mighty good advice, and I would act on it if I was guilty of shooting Doubler. But I didn't shoot him. Your father and Duncan had framed up on me. Doubler isn't dead yet, and so I'm not running away. If Doubler had someone to nurse him, he might. He hesitated, and looked at her with a strange smile. You think I shot Doubler, too, don't you? Well, there's a chance that if we can get Doubler revived, he can tell us who did shoot him. Do you want to know the truth? I heard you say a while ago, while I was standing at the window, looking in at your father giving a demonstration of his love for you, that you intended to go over to Doubler's shack to nurse him. If you're still of the same mind, I'll take you over there. Sheila was at the door in an instant, but halted on the threshold to listen to Dakota's parting word to Langford. Mr. Manney said, enigmatically, There's just one thing that I want to say to you. There's a day coming when you'll think thoughts plenty of them. In a flash, he had stepped outside the door and closed it after him. A few minutes later, still standing beside the desk, Langford heard the rapid beat of hoofs on the hard sand of the corral yard. Faint they became, and their rhythmic beat faster until they died away entirely. But Dakota's word still lingered in Langford's mind, and it seemed to him that they conveyed a prophecy. End of Chapter 14, Chapter 15 of the Trail to Yesterday by Charles Alden Selzer. This Librivox recording is in the public domain. The parting on the River Trail. I'll be leaving now, ma'am. There was a good moon, and its mellow light streamed full into Dakota's grim, travel-stained face as he halted his pony on the crest of a slope above the two forks and pointed out a light that glimmered weakly through the trees on a level some distance on the other side of the river. There's Doubler's cabin, where you see that light, he continued, speaking to Sheila in a low voice. You've been there before, and you won't get lost the rest of the way alone. Do what you can for Doubler. I'm going down to my shack. I've done a heap of riding today, and I don't feel exactly like I want to keep going on, unless it's important. Besides, maybe Doubler will get along a whole lot better if I don't hang around there. At least, he'll do as well. She'll had turned her head from him. He was exhibiting a perfectly natural aversion toward visiting the man he had nearly killed. She assured herself, with a shudder, and she felt no pity for him. He had done her a service, however, in appearing at the Doubler Ranch at a most opportune time, and she was grateful. Therefore she lingered, finding it hard to choose words. I'm sorry, she finally said. Thank you. He maneuvered his pony until the moonlight streamed in her face. I reckon you've got the same notion as your father, that I shot Doubler, he said, watching her narrowly. You are willing to take Duncan's word for it? Duncan's word, and the agreement which I found in the pocket of your vest she returned without looking at him. I suppose that is proof enough. Well, he said with a bitter laugh, it does look bad for me, for a fact. I can't deny that. And I don't blame you for thinking as you do. But you heard what I told your father about the shooting of Doubler being a plant. A plant? A scheme, a plot. To make an innocent man seem guilty. That is what has been done with me. I didn't shoot Doubler, I wouldn't shoot him. She looked at him now, unbelief in her eyes. Of course you would deny it, she said. Well, he said resignedly. I reckon that's all. I can't say that I expected anything else. I've done some things in my life that I've regretted. But I've never told a lie when the truth would do as well. There's no reason now why I should lie. And so I want you to know that I'm telling the truth when I say I didn't shoot Doubler. Won't you believe me? No, she returned, unaffected by the earnestness in his voice. You are at Doubler's cabin when I heard the shot. I met you on the trail. You killed that man, Blanca over in Lisette, for nothing. You didn't need to kill him. You shot him in pure wantonness. But you killed Doubler for money. You would have killed my father had I not been there to prevent you. Perhaps you can't help killing people. You have my sympathy on that account. And I hope that in time you will do better. We'll reform. But I don't believe you. You forgot to mention one other crime, he reminded her in a low voice, not without a trace of sarcasm. I have not forgotten it. I will never forget it. But I forgive you for in comparison to your other crimes. Your sin against me was trivial, though it was great enough. Again his bitter laugh reached her ears. I thought he began and then stopped short. Well, I reckon it doesn't make much difference what I thought. I would have to tell you many things before you would understand. And even then I suppose you wouldn't believe me. So I'm keeping quiet until, until the time comes, maybe that won't be so long. And then you'll understand. I'll be seeing you again. I'm leaving this country tomorrow, she informed him coldly. She saw him start and experienced a sensation of addictive satisfaction. Well, he said with a queer note of regret in his voice, that's too bad. But I reckon I'll be seeing you again anyway, if the sheriff doesn't get me. Do you think they will come for you tonight? She asked, suddenly remembering, that her father had told her that Duncan had gone to the Zet for the sheriff. What will they do? Nothing I reckon, that is, they won't do anything except take me into custody. They can't do anything until Doubler dies. If he doesn't die, she said, what can they do then? Usually it isn't considered a crime to shoot a man if he doesn't die. Likely they wouldn't do anything to me if Doubler gets well. They might want me to leave the country. But I don't reckon that I'm going to let them take me, whether Doubler dies or not. Once they've got a man, it's pretty easy to prove him guilty in this country. Usually they hang a man and consider the evidence afterwards. I'm not letting them do that to me. If I was guilty, I suppose I might look at it differently, but maybe not. Sheila was silent. He became silent, too, and looked gravely at her. Well, he said presently, I'll be going. He urged his pony forward. But when it had gone, only a few steps, he turned and looked back at her. Do your best to keep Doubler alive, he said. There was a note of the old mockery in his voice, and it lingered long in Sheila's ears after she had watched him vanish into the mysterious shadows that surrounded the trail. Stifling ascii of regret and pity, she spoke to her pony, and the animal shuffled down the long slope forward at the river, and so brought her to the door of Doubler's cabin. The doctor was there. He was bending over Doubler at the instant Sheila entered the cabin, and he looked up at her with grave, questioning eyes. I'm going to nurse him, she informed the doctor. That's good, he returned softly. He needs lots of care, the care that a woman can give him. Then he went off into a maze of medical terms and phrases that left her confused. But out of which she gathered the fact that the bullet had missed the vital spot that Doubler was suffering more from shock than from real injury, and that the only danger, his constitution being strong enough to withstand the shock, would be from blood poisoning. He had some fever, the doctor told Sheila, and he left a small vial on the shelf, with instructions to administer a number of drops of its contents in a spoon full of water, if Doubler became restless. The bandages were to be changed several times a day, and the wound bathed. The doctor was glad that she had come, for he had a very sick patient in Mrs. Morland, and he must return to her immediately. He would try to look in in a day or two. No, he said, in answer to her question, she could not leave Doubler to-morrow, even to go home, if she wanted the patient to get well. And so Sheila watched him, as he went out and saddled his horse, and rode away down the river-trail. Then with a sigh, she returned to the cabin, closed the door, and took up her vigil beside the nester. CHAPTER XVI The sheriff's posse, three men, whom he had deputized in Lisette and himself, had ridden hard over the twenty miles of rough trail from Lisette. For Duncan had assured Allen that he would have to get into action before Dakota could discover that there had been a witness to his deed, and therefore, when they arrived at the edge of the clearing, near Dakota's cabinet midnight, they were glad of the opportunity to dismount and stretch themselves. There was no light in Dakota's cabin, no sign that the man, the sheriff was after, was anywhere about, and the latter consulted gravely with his men. This ain't going to be any picnic, boys, he said. We've got to take our time and keep our eyes open. Dakota ain't no spring chicken, and if he don't want to come with us peaceable, he'll make things plum lively. A careful examination of the horses in the corral resulted in the discovery of one which had evidently been ridden hard and unsaddled, but a few minutes before, for its flanks were in a lather and steam rose from its sides. However, the discovery of the pony told the sheriff nothing beyond the fact that Dakota had ridden to the cabin from somewhere some time before. Whether he was asleep or watching the posse from some vantage point within or outside of the cabin was not quite clear. Therefore Alan, the sheriff, a man of much experience, advised caution. After another careful reconnoiter, which settled beyond all reasonable doubt the fact that Dakota was not secreted in the timber in the vicinity of the cabin, Alan told his deputies to remain concealed on the edge of the clearing, while he proceeded boldly to the door of the cabin and knocked loudly. He and Dakota had always been very friendly. At the sound of the knock Dakota's voice came from within the cabin, burdened with mockery. Sorry, Alan, it said, but I'm locked up for the night. Can't take any chances on leaving my door unbarred. Can't tell who's prowling around. If you'd sent word now, so I would have had time to dress decently, I might have let you in, seeing it's you. I'm sure some sorry. Sorry too, Alan grinned at the door. I told the boys you'd be watching. Well, it can't be helped, I reckon. Only, I'd like mighty well to see you. Coming out in the morning? Maybe, missed my beauty sleeper ready. His voice was dryly sarcastic. It's too bad you rode this far for nothing. Can't even get a look at me. But it's no time to visit a man anyway. You and your boys flop outside. We'll swap a laver in the morning. Good night. Good night. Alan returned to the edge of the clearing, where he communicated to his men the result of the conference. He ain't allowing that he wants to be disturbed just now, he told them. And he's too damn polite to monkey with. We'll wait, likely he'll change his mind overnight. Wait, nothing, girl, Duncan. Bust the door in. Alan grinned mildly. Good advice, he said quietly. Me and my men will sit here. Why you do the busting. Don't imagine that we'll be sore, because you take the lead in such a little matter as that. If I was the sheriff, began Duncan. Sure interrupted Alan with a dry laugh. If you was the sheriff. There's a lot of things we do if we was somebody else. Maybe break it down to Coda's door is one of them. But we don't want anyone killed if we can help it. And it's a dead sure thing that someone would cash in if we tried any monkey business with that door. If you're wanting to do something that amounts to something, to help this game along, swap your kiosks for one of the Coda's, and hit the breeze to the double R for grub. We'll be needing it by the time you get back. Duncan had already ridden over 60 miles within the past 24 hours, and he made a grumbling rejoinder. But in the end he roped one of the Coda's horses, saddled it, and presently vanished in the darkness. Alan and his men built a fire near the edge of the clearing and rolled into their blankets. At eight o'clock the following morning Langford appeared on the river trail, leading a pack horse loaded with provisions and cooking utensils for the sheriff and his men. Duncan, Langford told Alan while he breakfasted, had sought his bunk, being tired from the day's activities. You're the owner of the double R, questioned Alan. You and Coda friendly, he questioned again, noting Langford's nod. We've been quite friendly, smiled Langford. But you ain't now? Not since this has happened. We must have law and order, even at the price of friendship. Alan squinted a mildly hostile eye at Langford. That's a good principle to get back of, for a weak-made friendship. But most men, who have got friends, wouldn't let a little thing like law and order interfere between them. Langford ridden. I haven't known Coda long, of course, he defended. Perhaps I erred in saying we were friends. Acquaintances would better describe it, I think. Alan's eyes narrowed again, with an emotion that Langford could not fathom. I always had a heap of faith in the Coda's judgment, he said. And then, when Langford's face flushed with a realization of the subtle insult, Alan said gruffly, You say Doubler's dead? I don't remember to have said that to you, return Langford, his voice snapping with rage. What I did say was that Duncan saw him killed and came to me with the news. I sent for you. Since then my daughter has been over at the Doubler's cabin. He is quite dead, she reported, he lied. There can be no doubt of his guilt. If that is what bothers you, he continued. Duncan saw him shoot Doubler in the back with Doubler's own rifle. And my daughter heard the shot and met the Coda coming from Doubler's cabin immediately after. It's a clear case, it seems to me. Yes, clear said Alan. The evidence is all against him. Yet it was not all quite clear to Langford. To be sure, he had expected the received news that the Coda had accomplished the destruction of Doubler. But he had not anticipated the fortunate appearance of Duncan at the Nestor's cabin during the commission of the murder, nor had he expected Sheila to be near the scene of the crime. It had turned out better than he had planned. For since he had burned the agreement that he had made with the Coda, the latter had no hold on him, whatever. And if it were finally proved that he had committed the crime, there would come an end to both the Coda and Doubler. Only one thing puzzled him. The Coda had been to his place. He knew that he was charged with the murder, and that the agreement had been burned. He also knew that Duncan and Sheila would bear witness against him. And yet, though he had had an opportunity to escape, he had not done so. Why not? He put this interrogation to Alan, carefully avoiding reference to anything, which would give the sheriff any idea that he possessed any suspicion that the Coda was not really guilty. That's what's bothering me, declared the latter. He's had time enough to hit the breeze to clear out of the territory. Though he had it, Quentinette Langford, the Coda ain't never been much on the run. He had heaped rather face the music. Damn the cuss. He exploded impatiently. He finished his breakfast in silence and then again approached the door of the Coda's cabin, knocking loudly as before. I'm wanting that palaver now, the Coda, he said coaxingly. He heard the Coda laugh. Have you viewed the corpse, Alan? Game his voice, pardoned with mockery. No, said Alan. You're a hell of a sheriff, wanted to take a man, when you don't know whether he's done anything. I reckon you ain't fooling me none, said Alan, slowly. The evidence is dead against you. What evidence? Duncan saw you fixin' doubler, and Langford's daughter met you coming from his cabin. Who told you that? Langford, he just brought some grub over. The silence that followed Alan's words lasted long, and the sheriff fidgeted it impatiently. When he again spoke, there was the sharpness of intolerance in his voice. If talking to you was all I had to do, I might monkey around here all summer, he said. I've given you about eight hours to think this thing over, and that's plenty long enough. I don't like to get into any gun argument with you, because I know that somebody will get hurt. Why in hell don't you surrender decently? I'm a friend of yours, and you hadn't ought to want to make any trouble for me. And them's good boys that I've got over there, and I wouldn't want to see any of them perforated. And I'd hate like blazes to have to put you out of business. Why don't you act decent and come out like a man? Go and look at the corpse, insisted Dakota. There'll be plenty of time to look at the corpse after you're took. There was no answer, Alan sighed regretfully. Well, he said presently, I've done what I could. From now on, I'm looking for you. Just a minute, Alan, came Dakota's voice. To Alan's surprise, he heard a fumbling at the fastening of the door, and an instant later it swung open, and Dakota stood in the opening, one of his six shooters in hand. I reckon I know you well enough to be tolerably sure that you'll get me before you leave here, he said, as Alan wheeled and faced him, his arms folded over his chest, as a declaration of his present, peaceful intentions. But I want you to get this business straight before anything is started, and then you'll be responsible. I'm giving it to you straight. Somebody's framed up on me. I didn't shoot doubler. When I left him, he was cleaning his rifle. After I left him, I heard shooting. I thought it was him trying his rifle, or I would have gone back. Then I met Sheila Langford on the river trail near the cabin. She heard the shooting, too. She thinks I did it. You think I did it. Duncan says he saw me do it. Doubler, is it dead? At least he wasn't dead when I left the doctor with him at sundown. But he wasn't far from it, and if he dies without coming to, it's likely that things will look bad for me. But because I knew he wasn't dead, I took a chance on staying here. I'm not allowing that I'm going to let anyone hang me for a thing I didn't do. And so if you're determined to get me without making sure that Doubler's going to have mourners immediately, it's a dead sure thing that someone's going to get hurt. I reckon that's all. I've given you fair warning, and after you get back to the edge of the clearing, our friendship don't count any more. He stepped back and closed the door. Alan walked slowly towards the clearing, thinking seriously. He said nothing to Langford or his men concerning his conversation with Dakota. And though he covertly questioned the former, he could discover nothing more than that which the Doubler owner had already told him. Several times during the morning he was on the point of planning an attack on the cabin. But Dakota's voice had a ring of truth in it, and he delayed action, waiting for some more favorable turn of events. And so the hours dragged. The men louged in the shade of the trees and talked, Langford, though he had no further excuse for staying, remained, concealing his impatience over Alan's inaction, by taking short rides but always returning. Alan, taciturn, morose even, paid no attention to him. The afternoon waned, the sun descended to the peaks of the mountains, and there was still inaction on Alan's part, still silenced from the cabin. Just at sundown, Alan called his men to him and told them to guard the cabin closely, not to shoot unless forced by Dakota, but to be certain that he did not escape. He said they might expect him to return by dawn of the following morning. Then, during Langford's absence, on one of his rides, he loped his pony up the river trail toward Ben Doubler's cabin. End of Chapter 16 Chapter 17 of the Trail to Yesterday by Charles Alden Selzer. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Doubler talks. After the departure of the doctor, Sheila entered the cabin and closed the door, fastening the bars and drawing a chair over near the table. Doubler seemed to be resting easier, though there was a flush in his cheeks that told of the presence of fever. However, he breathed more regularly and with less effort than before the coming of the doctor, and as a consequence, Sheila felt decidedly better. At intervals during the night she gave him quantities of the medicine which the doctor had left, but only when the fever seemed to increase, forcing the liquid through his lips. Several times he changed the bandages and once or twice during the night, when he moaned, she pulled her chair over beside him and smoothed his forehead, soothing him. When the dawn came, he'd found her heavy eye and tired. She went to the river and procured fresh water, washed her hands and face, prepared a breakfast of bacon and soda biscuit, which she found in a tin box in a corner of the cabin and then, as Doubler seemed to be doing nicely, she saddled her pony and took a short gallop. Returning, she entered the cabin to find Doubler tossing restlessly. She gave him a dose of the medicine, an extra-large one, but it had little effect, quieting him only momentarily. Evidently he was growing worse. The thought aroused apprehension in her mind. She fought it down and stayed resolutely at the sick man's side. Through the slow dragging hours of the morning she sat beside him, giving him the best care possible under the circumstances. But in spite of her efforts the fever steadily rose, and at noon he sat up suddenly in the bunk and gazed at her with blazing, vacuous eyes. You're a liar, he shouted, Dakota Square. Sheila stifled a scream of fear and shrank from him, but recovering she went to him, seizing his shoulders and forcing him back into the bunk. He did not resist, not seeming to pay any attention to her at all. But he mumbled inexpressively. It ain't so, I tell you, he just left me, and any man which could talk like he talked to me ain't. I reckoned not, he said, shaking his head with a vigorous negative motion. You're a heap mistaken. You ain't got him right at all. He was quiet for a time after this, but toward the middle of the afternoon, Sheila saw that his gaze was following her, as she paced softly back and forth in the cabin. So you're stuck on that Langford girl, are you, he demanded, laughing. Well, it won't do you any good, Dakota. She's. Well, she's some sore at you for something. She won't listen to anything which is said about you. The laughter died out of his eyes. They became cold with menace. I ain't listening to any more of that sort of talk, I tell you. I've got my eyes open. Why, he said, in surprise starting up, he's gone. He suddenly shuddered and cursed. In the back, he said, you, you. And profanity gushed from his lips. Then he collapsed, closing his eyes and lay silent and motionless. Out of the jumble of disconnected sentences, Sheila was able to gather two things of importance, perhaps three. The first was that someone had told him of Dakota's complicity in the plan to murder him, and that he refused to believe his friend capable of such depravity. The second was that he knew which shot him. He also knew the man who had informed him of Dakota's duplicity, though this knowledge would amount to very little unless he recovered enough to be able to supply the missing threads. Sheila despaired of him supplying anything, for it seemed that he was steadily growing worse. And when the dust came, she began to feel a dread of remaining with him in the cabin during the night, if only the doctor would return. If Dakota would come, Duncan, her father, anybody. But nobody came, and the silence around the cabin grew so oppressive that she felt she must scream. When darkness succeeded dusk, she lighted the kerosene lamp, placed a bar over the window, secured the door fastenings, and seated herself at the table, determined to take a short nap. It seemed that she had scarcely dropped off to sleep, though in reality she had been unconscious for more than two hours, when she awoke suddenly to see Doubler sitting erect in the bunk, watching her with a wan, sympathetic smile. There was the light of reason in his eyes, and her heart gave an ecstatic leap. Could you give me a drink of water, mammy said, in the voice that she knew well? She sprang to the pail, to find it contained very little. She had lifted it, and was about to unfasten the door, intending to go to the river to procure fresh water, when Doubler's voice arrested her. There's some water there. I can hear it splashing. It'll do well enough just now. I don't want much. You can get some fresh after a while. I want to talk to you. She placed the pail down and went over to him, standing beside him. What is it, she asked? How long have you been here? I know that you was here all the time. I kept seeing you. But somehow things was a little mixed. But I know that you've been here quite a while. How long? This is the second night. You found me lying there in the door. I dropped there, not being able to go any further. I felt you touching me, dragging me. There was someone else here who wasn't. The doctor and Dakota. Where's Dakota now? At his cabin, I suppose. He didn't stay here long. He left right after he brought the doctor. I imagine you know why he didn't stay. He was afraid that you would recognize him and accuse him. Accused him of what, ma'am? Of shooting you. He smiled. I reckon, ma'am, that you don't understand. It wasn't Dakota that shot me. Who did, then, she questioned eagerly, who? Duncan. Why, why, she said. Sitting suddenly erect, a mysterious elation filling her, her eyes wide with surprise and delight, and a fear that doubler might have been mistaken. Why, I saw Dakota on the river trail just after you were shot. He just left me. He hadn't been gone more than ten minutes or so when Duncan rode up, coming out of the timber, just down by the creek. I could have been hiding there. I was cleaning my rifle, we had words, and when I set my rifle down just outside the shack, he grabbed it and shot me. After that, I don't seem to remember a heap, except that someone was touching me, which must have been you. Oh, she said, I'm so glad. She was thinking now of Dakota's parting words to her, the night before on the crest of the slope above the river. Of his words, of the truth of his statement denying his guilt, and she was glad that she had not spoken some of the spiteful things which had been in her mind. How she had misjudged him. I reckon it's something to be glad for, smiled doubler, misunderstanding her elation. But I reckon I owe it to you. I'd have pulled my freight sure if you hadn't come when you did. And I told you not to be coming here any more, he laughed. Ain't it odd how things turn out sometimes? I'd have died sure, he repeated. You're going to live a long while, she said, and then to a surprise, she bent over and kissed his forehead, leaving his side instantly, her cheeks aflame, her eyes alight with a mysterious fire. To conceal her emotion from doubler, she seized a water pail. I will get some fresh water, she said with a quick smiling glance at him. You'll want to fresh a drink, and your bandages must be changed. She opened the door and stepped down into the darkness. There was a moon, and the trail to the river was light enough for her to see plainly. But when she reached a timber clump in which doubler has said Duncan had been hiding, she shuddered and made a detour to avoid passing close to it. This took her some distance out of her way, and she reached the river and walked along its bank for a little distance, searching for a deep accessible spot into which she could dip the pail. The shallow crossing over which she had ridden many times was not far away, and when she stooped to fill the pail, she heard a sudden clatter and splashing, and looked up to see a horseman riding into the water from the opposite side of the river. He saw her at the instant she discovered him, and once over the fort he turned his horse and rode directly toward her. After gaining the bank, he halted his pony and looked intently at her. Your Langford's daughter, I reckon, he said. Yes, she returned, seeing that he was a stranger I am. I'm Ben Allen, he said shortly, the sheriff of this county. What are you doing here? I'm taking care of Ben Doubler, she said. He has been. Said he ain't dead, of course, said Allen, interrupting her. It seemed to Sheila that there was relief and satisfaction in his voice, and she peered closer at him. But his face was hidden in the shadow of his hat brim. He is very much better now, she told him, scarcely able to conceal her delight. But he has been very bad. Able to talk? Yes, he's just been talking to me. She took a step toward him, speaking earnestly and rapidly. I suppose you were looking for Dakota, she said, remembering what her father had told her about sending Duncan to Lisette for the sheriff. If you are looking for him, I want to tell you that he didn't shoot Doubler. It was Duncan. Doubler told me so not five minutes ago, he said. But Allen had spurred his pony forward, and before she could finish he was out of hearing distance, riding swiftly toward the cabin. Sheila lingered at the water's edge for now suddenly, she saw much beauty in the surrounding country, and she was no longer lonesome. She stood on the bank of the river, gazing long at the shadowy rims of the distant mountains, at their peaks rising majestically in the luminous mist of the night, at the planes stretching away and fading into mysterious shadows of the distance, watching the waters of the river shimmering like Quicksilver, a band of glowing ribbon winding in and out and around the moon touched buttes of the canyons. Oh, she said irreverently, he isn't so bad after all. Stooping over the fill of the pail, she heard a sharp clatter of hoofs behind her. A horseman was racing toward the river, toward her, bending low over his pony's mane, riding desperately. She placed the pail down and watched him, apparently he did not see her. For, swerving suddenly, he made for the crossing without slackening speed. He had almost reached the water's edge when there came a spur of flame from the door of Doubler's cabin, followed by the sharp, whip-like crack of a rifle. In the doorway of the cabin, clearly outlined against the flickering light of the interior was a man, and as she had watched another streak of fire burst from the door, as she heard the shrill sign of the bullet, heard the horseman curse, but he did not stop in his flight, and in an instant he had crossed the river. She saw him for an instant, as he was outlined against the clear sky and the moonlight that bathed the crest of the slope, and then he was gone. Dropping the pail, Sheila ran toward the cabin, fearing that Doubler had suddenly become delirious and had attacked Alan. But it seemed to her that it had not been Alan who had raced away from the cabin, and she had not gone more than halfway toward it when she saw another horseman coming. She halted the wait for him, and when he halted and drew up beside her, she saw that it was the sheriff. Who was it she demanded breathlessly? Duncan. Alan cursed picturesquely and profanely. When I got to the shack, he was inside, standing over Doubler, strangling him. The damn skunk. He was righty at it. It was him who shot Doubler. He continued rapidly, grimly, taking a piece of paper from a pocket and writing something on it. My men have got Dakota corralled in his cabin. If he tries to get away, they will do for him. I don't want that to happen. There's too few square men in this country as it is. Take this. He held out the paper to her, and get down to Dakota's cabin with it. Give it to Bud, one of my men, and tell him to scatter the others, and try to head off Duncan if he comes that way. I'm after him. The paper fluttered toward her. She snatched at it, missed it, and stooped to take it from the ground. When she stood erect, she saw Alan in his pony, silhouette it for an instant, on the crest of the ridge on the other side of the river. Then he vanished. End of Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Of the Trail to Yesterday by Charles Alden Selzer This Libravox recording is in the public domain. For Dakota Though in a state of anxiety and excitement over the incident of Duncan's attack on Doubler and the subsequent shooting together with the realization of Dakota's danger, Sheila did not lose her composure. She ran to the river and secured the water, aware that it might be needed now more than ever. Then, hurrying as best she could with the weight of the pail, she returned to the cabin. She was relieved to find that Doubler had received no injury, and she paused long enough to allow him to tell her that Duncan had entered the cabin shortly after she had left it. He had attacked Doubler. He had been interrupted by Alan, but suddenly ridden up. Duncan had heard him coming, and had concealed himself behind the door. And when Alan had entered, Duncan had struck him on the head with the butt of his six-shooter, knocking him down. The blow had been a glancing one, however, and Alan had recovered quickly, seizing Doubler's rifle and trying to bring down the would-be murderer as he fled. While attending to Doubler's bandages, Sheila repeated the conversation she had had with Alan concerning the situation in which she had left Dakota, and instantly the Nestor's anxiety for his friend took precedence over any thoughts of his own immediate welfare. There'll be trouble sure, now that Alan's left there, he said. Dakota won't be a heap easy with them deputies. He told Sheila to let the bandaging go until later, but she refused. Dakota will be needing you a heap more than I need you, he insisted, refusing to allow her to touch the bandages. There'll be the devil to pay if any of them deputies try to rush Dakota's shack. I want you to go down there right now. If you wait, it may be too late. Sheila hesitated for a moment and then yielding to the entreaty, in Doubler's eyes, she was at his side pressing his hand. Ride, mammy told her, when she was ready to go, his cheeks flushed with excitement, his eyes bright. Her pony snorted with surprise when she brought her riding whip down against its flanks when turning from the corral gate. But it needed no second urging and its pace when it splashed through the shallow water of a crossing was fully as great as that of Duncan's pony, which had previously passed through it. Once on the hard sand of the river trail, it settled into a long, swinging gallop, under which the miles flew by rapidly and steadily. Sheila drew the animal up on the rises, breathing it sometimes, but on the levels she urged it with whip and spur, and in something more than an hour after leaving Doubler's cabin, she flashed by the quick sand crossing, which she estimated as being not more than 12 miles from her journey's end. She was tired after the long vigil at Doubler's side, but the weariness was entirely physical, for her brain was working rapidly, filling her thoughts with picturesque ejectures, drawing pictures in which she saw Dakota being shot down by Alan's deputies, and he was innocent. She did not blame herself for Dakota's dilemma, though she felt akin regret over her treatment of him, over her unjust suspicions. Had he really been an earnest when he had told her the night before on the river trail that he was not guilty, that everybody had misjudged him, vivid in her recollection, was the curious expression on his face, when he had said to her just before leaving her that night, won't you believe me? And that other time, when he had taken her by the shoulders and looked steadily into her eyes, she remembered that too. She could almost feel his fingers, and the words he had uttered then were fresh in her memory. I've treated you mean, Sheila, 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. There had been mystery in his actions ever since she had seen him the first time, and though she could not understand it, she had discovered that there were forces at work at his affairs, which seemed to indicate that he had not told her that for the purpose of attempting to justify his previous actions. Evidently, whatever the mystery that surrounded him, her father and Duncan were concerned in it, and this thought spurred her on, for it gave her keen delight to think that she was arrayed against them, even though she was on the side of the man who had wronged her. He at least had not been concerned in the plot to murder Doubler. When she reached the last rise on the crest of which she had sat at her pony on the morning following her marriage to Dakota in the cabin, and from which she had seen the parson riding away, she was trembling with eagerness and dread for fear that something might have happened before she could arrive. It was three miles down the slope, and when she reached the level, there was Dakota's cabin before her. She drew her pony to a walk, for she saw men grouped in front of the cabin door, saw Dakota there himself standing in the open doorway, framed in the light from within. There were no evidences of the conflict which she had dreaded. She had arrived in time. Convinced of this she felt for the first time her physical weariness, and she leaned forward on her pony, holding to its mane for support, approaching the cabin slowly. Her father was there as she observed as she drew nearer, and three strangers, and Allen, and near Allen, sitting on his horse, dejectedly was Duncan. One of Duncan's arms swung oddly at his side, and Sheila thought instantly of his curse when he had been riding near her at the river crossing. Evidently Allen's bullet had struck him. Sheila's presence at Dakota's cabin was now unnecessary, for it was evident that an understanding had been reached with Allen, and Sheila experienced a sudden aversion to a period among the men. Turning her pony she was about to ride away, intending to return to Douglas' cabin when Allen turned and saw her. He spurred quickly to her side, seizing the pony by the bridal rain, and leading it toward the cabin door. It's all right, ma'am, he said. I got him. Holy smoke, he exclaimed, as she came within radius of the light. You certainly rode some, didn't you, ma'am? She did not answer. She saw her father look at her, noted his start, smiled scornfully, when she observed the paleness overspreading his face. She looked from him to Duncan, and the latter flushed and turned his head. Then Allen's voice reached her as he spoke to Dakota. This young woman has rode twenty miles tonight. The savior hide, you darned cuss. If he was any ways hospitable, you'd. Allen's voice seemed to grow distant to Sheila. The figures of the men in the group blurred, and the light danced. She reeled in the saddle, trying to check herself, failed, and toppled limply forward over her pony's neck. She heard an exclamation, saw Dakota spring suddenly from the doorway, felt his arms around her. She struggled in his grasp, trying to fight him off, and then she drifted into oblivion. End of Chapter 18 Chapter 19 of the Trail to Yesterday by Charles Alden Selzer This Libravox recording is in the public domain. Some Memories When Sheila recovered consciousness, she was in Dakota's cabin, in the bunk, in which she had lain on another night in the yesterday of her life in this country. She recognized it instantly. There was the candle on the table. There were the familiar chairs, the fireplace, the shelves upon which were Dakota's tobacco tins and matches. There was a guitar with its gaudy strings suspended from the wall. If it had been raining, she might have imagined that she was just awakening from asleep in that other time. She felt a hand on her forehead, a damp cloth, and she opened her eyes to gaze fairly into Dakota's. Don't please, she said, shrinking from him. It occurred to her that she had uttered the same words to him before, and closing her eyes for a moment she remembered. It had been when he had tried to assist her out of the water at the quicksand crossing. As on that occasion, his answer was the same. Then I won't. She lay for a long time, looking straight up at the ceiling, utterly tired, wondering vaguely what had become of her father, Duncan, Alan, and the others. She would have given much to have been able to lie there for a time, a long time and rest. But that was not to be thought of. She struggled to a sitting position, and when her eyes had become accustomed to the light, she saw her father sitting in a chair near the fireplace. The door was closed, barred, Sheila glanced again at her father, and then questioningly at Dakota, who was watching her from the center of the room, his face inscrutable. What does this mean? Where are the others she demanded? Alan and his men have gone back to Lisette, returned Dakota, quietly. This means, he pointed to Langford, that we're going to have a little talk about things. Sheila rose. I don't care to hear any talk. I'm not interested. You'll be interested in my talks at Dakota. Curiously, he seemed to be invested with a new character. Just now he was more like the man he had been the night she had met him the first time, before he had forced her to marry him. Then he had been since, only. She felt as she watched him standing quietly in the middle of the room. The recklessness, which had marked his manner that other time, seemed to have entirely disappeared, seemed to have been replaced by something else, determination. Beneath the drooping mustache, Sheila saw the lines of his lips. They had always seemed hard to her, and now there were little curves at the corners which hinted at amusement, grim amusement. His eyes, too, were different. The mockery had departed from them. They were steady and unwavering, as before, and though they still baffled her, she was certain that she saw a slumbering devil in them, as though he possessed some mysterious knowledge, and proposed to confound Sheila and her father with it, though in his own way, and to suit his convenience. Yet behind it all there lurked a certain gravity, a cold deliberation that seemed to proclaim that he was in no mood to trifle, and that he proposed to follow some plan and would broke no interference. Fascinated by the change in him, Sheila resumed her seat on the edge of the bunk, watching him closely. He drew a chair over near the door, tilted it back, and dropped into it, thus mutely announcing that he intended keeping the prisoners until he had delivered himself with that mysterious knowledge which seemed to be in his mind. Glancing furtively at her father, Sheila observed that he appeared to have formed some sort of conclusion regarding to code his actions also, for he sat erect on his chair, staring at the ladder, an intense interest in his eyes. Sheila had become interested too. She had forgotten her weariness, and yet to code his first words disappointed her. Somehow they seemed irrelevant. This isn't such a big world after all, is it? He addressed both Sheila and her father, though he looked at neither. His tone was quietly conversational, and when he received no answer to his remark, he looked up with a quiet smile. That has been said by a great many people, hasn't it? I've heard it many times, I reckon you have too. But it's a fact just the same. The world is a small place. Take a stray, you, he said, pointed to Langford. Come out here from Albany and buy a ranch. You, he smiled at Sheila, came out with your father as a matter of course. You, he looked again at Langford, might have bought a ranch in another part of the country. You didn't need to buy this particular one, but you did. Take me. I spent five years in Dakota before I came here. I've been here five years. A man up in Dakota wanted me to stay there. Said he'd do most anything for me if I would. But I didn't like Dakota. Something kept telling me that I ought to move around a little. I came here. I like the place I've stayed here. I know that neither of you are very much interested in what has happened to me, but I've told you that much just to prove my contention about the world being a small place. It surely isn't so very big when you consider that three persons can meet up like we've met, our trails leading us to the same section of the country. I don't see how that concerns us at Langford impatiently. No return to Dakota, and now there was a note of sarcasm in his voice. You don't see. Lots of folks don't see. But there are trails that lead everywhere. Fate marks them out, blazes them. There are trails that lead us into trouble, others that lead us to pleasure, straight trails, crooked trails, trails that cross all kinds. Folks start out on a crooked trail, trying to get away from something, but pretty soon another trail crosses the one they're on. Maybe it will be a straight one that crosses theirs with a straight man riding it. The man riding the crooked trail and the man riding the straight one meet at a place where the trails cross. Such trails don't lead to any tomorrow. They are yesterday's trails, and before the man riding the crooked trail and the man riding the straight trail can go any further, there has to be an accounting. This is what has happened here. You, he smiled gravely, as he looked at Langford, have been riding a crooked trail. I have been hanging on to the straight one as best I could. Now we've got to go where the trails cross. Meaning that you want an explanation of my action in burning that sign to grim it, I suppose, sneered Langford, looking up. Still trying to ride the crooked trail, smiled Dakota, with the first note of mockery that Sheila had heard at his voice since he had begun speaking. I'm not worrying a bit about that agreement. Why man? I'd have shot myself before I'd have shot Doubler. He's my friend, the only real friend I've had in 10 years. Then when you signed the agreement, you didn't mean to keep it, question Langford and cautiously, disarmed by Dakota's earnestness. 10 years ago a boy named Ned Cleaglass went to Dakota. I am glad to see that you were familiar with the name he had it, with a smile, as Langford started and stiffened in his chair. His face suddenly ashen. You knowing Cleaglass will save me explaining a lot, continued Dakota. Well, Cleaglass went to Dakota, where I was. He was 18 and wasn't very strong as young men go. But he got a job punching cows, and I got to know him pretty well, used to bunk with him. He took a liking to me, because I took an interest in him. He didn't like the work, because he had been raised differently. He lived in Albany before he went west. His father, William Cleaglass, was in the hardware business with a man named Langford, David Dowd Langford. You see, I couldn't be mistaken in the name of a man. It's such an uncommon one. He smiled significantly at Sheila. And an odd expression came into her face, for she remembered that on the night of her coming, he had made the same remark. One day Ned Cleaglass got sick, and took me into his confidence. He wasn't in the west for his health, he said. He was a fugitive from the law, accused of murdering his father. It wasn't a nice story to hear, but he told it, thinking he was going to die. Dakota smiled enigmatically at Sheila, and coldly at the now shrinking man, seated in the chair beside the fireplace. One day Cleaglass went into his father's office. His father's partner, David Dowd Langford, was there, talking to his father. They had had hard words. Cleaglass's father had discovered that Langford had appropriated a large sum of the firm's money. By forging his partner's signature, he had escaped detection until one day when the elder Cleaglass had accidentally discovered the fraud, which was a day on which Ned Cleaglass visited his father. It isn't necessary to go into detail, but it was perfectly plain that Langford was guilty. There were hard words, as I have said. The elder Cleaglass threatened him to prosecute. Langford seized a sample knife that had been lying on the elder Cleaglass's desk, and stabbed him, killing him instantly. Then, while Ned Cleaglass stood by, stunned by the suddenness of the attack, Langford coolly walked to a telephone and notified the police of the murderer. Hanging up the receiver, he raised a hueon cry, and a dozen clerks burst into the office to find Ned Cleaglass bending over his father, trying to withdraw the knife. Langford accused Ned Cleaglass of the murder. He protested, of course, but seeing that the evidence was against him, he fought his way out of the office and escaped. He went to the toadah, where I met him. He hesitated and looked steadily at Langford. Do you see how the trails have crossed? The crooked one and the straight one? Langford was leaning forward in his chair, a scared, wild expression in his eyes. His teeth and hands clenched in an effort to control his emotions. It's a lie, he shouted. I didn't kill him, Ned Cleaglass. Wait! Dakota rose from his chair and walked to his shelf, from which he took a box, returning to Langford's side and opening it. He drew out a knife, shoving it before Langford's eyes, and pointing out some rust spots on the blade. This knife was given to me by Ned Cleaglass, he said slowly. The rust spots on the blade are from his father's blood. Look at them, he said sharply. For Langford had turned his head. At the command he swung around, his gaze resting on the knife. That's a pretty story, he's neared. Dakota's laugh when he returned the knife to the box, chilled Sheila, as the same laugh had chilled her when she had heard it during her first night in the country, in the same cabin, with Dakota sitting at the table, a bitter mocking laugh that had in it a savagery controlled by an iron will. He turned abruptly and walked to his chair, seating himself. Yes, he said it's a pretty story, but it hasn't all been told, with the besmirched name and the thoughts which were with him all the time. Life wasn't exactly a joyful one for Ned Cleaglass. He was young, you see, and it all preyed on his mind. But after a while it hardened him. He hit town with the rest of the boys, and he'd drink whiskey until he forgot. But he couldn't forget long. He kept seeing his father in Langford. Nights he'd start from his blankets, living over and over again the incident of the murder. He got so he couldn't stay in Dakota. He came down here and tried to forget. It was just the same. There was no forgetfulness. One night when it was on the trail near here, he met a woman. It was raining, and the woman had lost the trail. He took the woman in. She interested him. And he questioned her. He discovered that she was the daughter of the man who had murdered his father, the daughter of David Dowd Langford. He heard cringed, and looked at Sheila, who was looking straight at Dakota, her eyes alight with knowledge. Ned Cleaglass kept his silence, as he had kept it for ten years, resumed Dakota. But the coming of the woman brought back the bitter memories, and while the woman slept in his cabin, he turned to the whiskey bottle for comfort. As he drank, his troubles danced before him, magnified. He thought it would be a fine revenge if he should force the woman to marry him, for he figured that it would be a blow at the father's pride. If it hadn't been for a cowardly parson and the whiskey, the marriage would never have occurred. Ned Cleaglass would not have thought of it. But he didn't hurt the woman. She left him pure as she came, mentally and physically. Langford slowly rose from his chair, his lips twitching, his face working strangely, his eyes wide and glaring. You say she married him, Ned Cleaglass, he said, his voice high-keyed and shrill. He turned to Sheila after catching Dakota's nod. Is this true he demanded sharply? Did you marry him, as this man says you did? Yes, I married him, returned Sheila, dolly, and Langford sank limply into his chair. Dakota smiled with flashing eyes and continued. Cleaglass married the woman, he said coldly, because he thought she was Langford's real daughter. He looked at Sheila with a glance of compassion. Later, when Cleaglass discovered that the woman was only Langford's stepdaughter, he was mighty sorry. Not for Langford, however, because he could not consider Langford's feelings, and in spite of what he had done, he was still determined to secure revenge. One day Langford came to Cleaglass with a proposal. He had seen Cleaglass kill one man, and he wanted to hire him to kill another, a man named Doubler. Cleaglass agreed for the purpose of getting Langford into. Dakota hesitated, for Langford had risen to his feet and stood looking at him, his eyes bulging, his face livid. You, he said, in a choking, wailing voice, you. You are Ned Cleaglass, you, you, why? He hesitated and passed a hand uncertainly over his forehead, looking from Sheila to Dakota with glazed eyes. You, you are a liar, he suddenly screamed. His voice raised to a maniacal pitch. It isn't so. You both of you have conspired against me. Wait! Dakota got to his feet. Walked to his shelf and took down a small glass, a pair of shears, a shaving cup and a razor. While Langford watched, staring at him with fearful wondering eyes, Dakota deftly snipped off the moustache with his shears, lathered his lip and shaved it clean. Then he turned and confronted Langford. The latter looked at him with one long, intense gaze, and then with a dry sob which caught in his throat and seemed to choke him, he covered his face with his hands, shuddered convulsively, and without a sound, pitched forward, facedown at Dakota's feet.