The Trail to Yesterday Part 7

"They are ranchers, I suppose?"

Sheila's face was averted so that Duncan might not see the interest in her eyes, or the red which had suddenly come into her cheeks.

"Ranchers?" There was a sneer in Duncan's laugh. "Well, you might call them that. But they're only nesters. They've got a few head of cattle and a brand. It's likely they've put their brands on quite a few of the Double R cattle."

"You mean----" began Sheila in a low voice.

"I mean that I think they're rustlers--cattle thieves!" said Duncan venomously.

The flush had gone from Sheila's cheeks; she turned a pale face to the Double R manager.

"How long have these men lived in the vicinity of the Double R?"

"Doubler has been hanging around here for seven or eight years. He was here when I came and mebbe he's been here longer. Dakota's been here about five years. He bought his brand--the Star--from another nester--Texas Blanca."

"They've been stealing the Double R cattle, you say?" questioned Sheila.

"That's what I think."

"Why don't you have them arrested?"

Duncan laughed mockingly. "Arrested! That's good. You've been living where there's law. But there's no law out here; no law to cover cattle stealing, except our own. And then we've got to have the goods. The sheriff won't do anything when cattle are stolen, but he acts mighty sudden when a man's hung for stealing cattle, if the man ain't caught with the goods."

"Caught with the goods?"

"Caught in the act of stealing. If we catch a man with the goods and hang him there ain't usually anything said."

"And you haven't been able to catch these men, Dakota and Doubler, in the act of stealing."

"They're too foxy."

"If I were manager of this ranch and suspected anyone of stealing any of its cattle, I would catch them!" There was a note of angry impatience in Sheila's voice which caused Duncan to look sharply at her. He reddened, suspecting disparagement of his managerial ability in the speech.

"Mebbe," he said, with an attempt at lightness. "But as a general thing nosing out a rustler is a pretty ticklish proposition. n.o.body goes about that work with a whole lot of enthusiasm."

"Why?" There was scorn in Sheila's voice, scorn in her uplifted chin. But she did not look at Duncan.

"Why?" he repeated. "Well, because it's perfectly natural for a man to want to live as long as he can. I don't like them nesters--Dakota especially--and I'd like mighty well to get something on them. But I ain't taking any chances on Dakota."

"Why?" Again the monosyllable was pregnant with scorn.

"I forgot that you ain't acquainted out here," laughed the manager. "No one is taking any chances with Dakota--not even the sheriff. There's something about the cuss which seems to discourage a man when he's close to him--close enough to do any shooting. I've seen Dakota throw down on a man so quick that it would make you dizzy."

"Throw down?"

"Shoot at a man. There was a gambler over in Lazette thought to euchre Dakota. A gunman he was, from Texas, and--well, they carried the gambler out. It was done so sudden that n.o.body saw it."

"Killed him?" There was repressed horror in Sheila's voice.

"No, he wasn't entirely put out of business. Dakota only made him feel cheap. Creased him."

"Creased him?"

"Grazed his head with the bullet. Done it intentionally, they say. Told folks he didn't have any desire to send the gambler over the divide; just wanted to show him that when he was playin' with fire he ought to be careful. There ain't no telling what Dakota'd do if he got riled, though."

Sheila's gaze was on Duncan fairly, her eyes alight with contempt. "So you are all afraid of him?" she said, with a bitterness that surprised the manager.

"Well, I reckon it would amount to about that, if you come right down to the truth," he confessed, reddening a little.

"You are afraid of him, too I suppose?"

"I reckon it ain't just that," he parried, "but I ain't taking any foolish risks."

Sheila rose and walked to her pony, which was browsing the tops of some mesquite near by. She reached the animal, mounted, and then turned and looked at Duncan scornfully.

"A while ago you asked for my opinion of the people of this country," she said. "I am going to express that opinion now. It is that, in spite of his unsavory reputation, Dakota appears to be the only _man_ here!"

She took up the reins and urged her pony away from the b.u.t.te and toward the level that stretched away to the Double R buildings in the distance.

For an instant Duncan stood looking after her, his face red with embarra.s.sment, and then with a puzzled frown he mounted and followed her.

Later he came up with her at the Double R corral gate and resumed the conversation.

"Then I reckon you ain't got no use for rustlers?" he said.

"Meaning Dakota?" she questioned, a smoldering fire in her eyes.

"I reckon."

"I wish," she said, facing Duncan, her eyes flashing, "that you would kill him!"

"Why----" said Duncan, changing color.

But Sheila had dismounted and was walking rapidly toward the ranchhouse, leaving Duncan alone with his unfinished speech and his wonder.

CHAPTER V

DAKOTA EVENS A SCORE

With the thermometer at one hundred and five it was not to be expected that there would be much movement in Lazette. As a matter of fact, there was little movement anywhere. On the plains, which began at the edge of town, there was no movement, no life except when a lizard, seeking a retreat from the blistering sun, removed itself to a deeper shade under the leaves of the sage-brush, or a prairie-dog, popping its head above the surface of the sand, took a lightning survey of its surroundings, and apparently dissatisfied with the outlook whisked back into the bowels of the earth.

There was no wind, no motion; the little whirlwinds of dust that arose settled quickly down, the desultory breezes which had caused them departing as mysteriously as they had come. In the blighting heat the country lay, dead, spreading to the infinite horizons; in the sky no speck floated against the dome of blue. More desolate than a derelict on the calm surface of the trackless ocean Lazette lay, its huddled buildings dingy with the dust of a continuing dry season, squatting in their dismal lonesomeness in the shimmering, blinding sun.

In a strip of shade under the eaves of the station sat the station agent, gazing drowsily from under the wide brim of his hat at the two glistening lines of steel that stretched into the interminable distance. Some cowponies, hitched to rails in front of the saloons and the stores, stood with drooping heads, tormented by myriad flies; a wagon or two, minus horses, occupied a s.p.a.ce in front of a blacksmith shop.