The Charles Alden Seltzer Megapack

by Charles Alden Seltzer

  “You are going to sleep in the open,” she said.

  He caught the accusation in her eyes and his face reddened.

  “Well,” he admitted, “I’ve done it before.”

  “Perhaps,” she said, a little doubtfully. “But I do not care to feel that I am driving you out into the storm. You might catch cold and die. And I should not want to think that I was responsible for your death.”

  “A little wetting wouldn’t hurt me.” He looked at her appraisingly, a glint of sympathy in his eyes. Standing there, framed in the darkness, the flickering light from the candle on his strong, grave face, he made a picture that, she felt, she would not soon forget.

  “I reckon you ain’t afraid to stay here alone, ma’am,” he said.

  “Yes,” she returned frankly, “I am afraid. I do not want to stay here alone.”

  A pistol flashed in his hand, its butt toward her, and now for the first time she saw another at his hip. She repressed a desire to shudder and stared with dilated eyes at the extended weapon.

  “Take this gun,” he offered. “It ain’t much for looks, but it’ll go right handy. You can bar the door, too, and the window.”

  She refused to take the weapon. “I wouldn’t know how to use it if I had occasion to. I prefer to have you remain in the cabin—for protection.”

  He bowed. “I thought you’d—” he began, and then smiled wryly. “It certainly would be some wet outside,” he admitted. “It wouldn’t be pleasant sleeping. I’ll lay over here by the door when I get my blankets.”

  He went outside and in a few minutes reappeared with his blankets and saddle. Without speaking a word to Sheila he laid the saddle down, spread the blanket over it, and stretched himself out on his back.

  “I don’t know about the light,” he said after an interval of silence, during which Sheila sat on the edge of the bunk and regarded his profile appraisingly. “You can blow it out if you like.”

  “I prefer to have it burning.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  Sheila got up and placed the candle in a tin dish as a precaution against fire. Then, when its position satisfied her she left the table and went to the bunk, stretching herself out on it, fully dressed.

  For a long time she lay, listening to the soft patter of the rain on the roof, looking upward at the drops that splashed against the window, listening to the fitful whining of the wind through the trees near the cabin. Her eyes closed presently, sleep was fast claiming her. Then she heard her host’s voice:

  “You’re from the East, I reckon.”

  “Yes.”

  “Where?”

  “New York.”

  “City?”

  “Albany.”

  There was a silence. Sheila was thoroughly awake again, and once more her gaze went to the window, where unceasing streams trickled down the glass. Whatever fear she had had of the owner of the cabin had long ago been dispelled by his manner which, though puzzling, hinted of the gentleman. She would have liked him better were it not for the reckless gleam in his eyes; that gleam, it seemed to her, indicated a trait of character which was not wholly admirable.

  “What have you come out here for?”

  Sheila smiled at the rain-spattered window, a flash of pleased vanity in her eyes. His voice had been low, but in it she detected much curiosity, even interest. It was not surprising, of course, that he should feel an interest in her; other men had been interested in her too, only they had not been men that lived in romantic wildernesses,—observe that she did not make use of the term “unfeatured,” which she had manufactured soon after realizing that she was lost—nor had they carried big revolvers, like this man, who seemed also to know very well how to use them.

  Those other men who had been interested in her had had a way of looking at her; there had always been a significant boldness in their eyes which belied the gentleness of demeanor which, she had always been sure, merely masked their real characters. She had never been able to look squarely at any of those men, the men of her circle who had danced attendance upon her at the social functions that had formerly filled her existence—without a feeling of repugnance.

  They had worn man-shapes, of course, but somehow they had seemed to lack something real and vital; seemed to have possessed nothing of that forceful, magnetic personality which was needed to arouse her sympathy and interest. Not that the man on the floor in front of the door interested her—she could not admit that! But she had felt a sympathy for him in his loneliness, and she had looked into his eyes—had been able to look steadily into them, and though she had seen expressions that had puzzled her, she had at least seen nothing to cause her to feel any uneasiness. She had seen manliness there, and indomitability, and force, and it had seemed to her to be sufficient. His would be an ideal face were it not for the expression that lingered about the lips, were it not for the reckless glint in his eyes—a glint that revealed an untamed spirit.

  His question remained unanswered. He stirred impatiently, and glancing at him Sheila saw that he had raised himself so that his chin rested in his hand, his elbow supported by the saddle.

  “You here for a visit?” he questioned.

  “Perhaps,” she said. “I do not know how long I shall stay. My father has bought the Double R.”

  For a long time it seemed that he would have no comment to make on this and Sheila’s lips took on a decidedly petulant expression. Apparently he was not interested in her after all.

  “Then Duncan has sold out?” There was satisfaction in his voice.

  “You are keen,” she mocked.

  “And tickled,” he added.

  His short laugh brought a sudden interest into her eyes. “Then you don’t like Duncan,” she said.

  “I reckon you’re some keen too,” came the mocking response.

  Sheila flushed, turned and looked defiantly at him. His hand still supported his head and there was an unmistakable interest in his eyes as he caught her glance at him and smiled.

  “You got any objections to telling me your name? We ain’t been introduced, you know?” he said.

  “It is Sheila Langford.”

  She had turned her head and was giving her attention to the window above her. The fingers of the hand that had been supporting his head slowly clenched, he raised himself slightly, his body rigid, his chin thrusting, his face pale, his eyes burning with a sudden fierce fire. Once he opened his lips to speak, but instantly closed them again, and a smile wreathed them—a mirthless smile that had in it a certain cold caution and cunning. After a silence that lasted long his voice came again, drawling, well-controlled, revealing nothing of the emotion which had previously affected him.

  “What is your father’s name?”

  “David Dowd Langford. An uncommon middle name, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. Uncommon,” came his reply. His face, with the light of the candle gleaming full upon it, bore a queer pallor—the white of cold ashes. His right hand, which had been resting carelessly on the blanket, was now gripping it, the muscles tense and knotted. Yet after another long silence his voice came again—drawling, well-controlled, as before:

  “What is he coming out here for?”

  “He has retired from business and is coming out here for his health.”

  “What business was he in?”

  “Wholesale hardware.”

  He was silent again and presently, hearing him stir, Sheila looked covertly at him. He had turned, his back was toward her, and he was stretched out on the blanket as though, fully satisfied with the result of his questioning, he intended going to sleep. For several minutes Sheila watched him with a growing curiosity. It was like a man to ask all and give nothing. He had questioned her to his complete satisfaction but had told nothing of himself. She was determined to discover something about him.

  “Who are you?” she questioned.

  “Dakota,” he said shortly.

  “Dakota?” she repeated, puzzled. “That isn’t a name; it’s a State—or a Territ
ory.”

  “I’m Dakota. Ask anybody.” There was a decided drawl in his voice.

  This information was far from being satisfactory, but she supposed it must answer. Still, she persisted. “Where are you from?”

  “Dakota.”

  That seemed to end it. It had been a short quest and an unsatisfactory one. It was perfectly plain to her that he was some sort of a rancher—at the least a cowboy. It was also plain that he had been a cowboy before coming to this section of the country—probably in Dakota. She was perplexed and vexed and nibbled impatiently at her lips.

  “Dakota isn’t your real name,” she declared sharply.

  “Ain’t it?” There came the drawl again. It irritated her this time.

  “No!” she snapped.

  “Well, it’s as good as any other. Good-night.”

  Sheila did not answer. Five minutes later she was asleep.

  CHAPTER II

  THE DIM TRAIL

  Sheila had been dreaming of a world in which there was nothing but rain and mud and clouds and reckless-eyed individuals who conversed in irritating drawls when a sharp crash of thunder awakened her. During her sleep she had turned her face to the wall, and when her eyes opened the first thing that her gaze rested on was the small window above her head. She regarded it for some time, following with her eyes the erratic streams that trickled down the glass, stretching out wearily, listening to the wind. It was cold and bleak outside and she had much to be thankful for.

  She was glad that she had not allowed the mysterious inhabitant of the cabin to sleep out in his tarpaulin, for the howling of the wind brought weird thoughts into her mind; she reflected upon her helplessness and it was extremely satisfying to know that within ten feet of her lay a man whose two big revolvers—even though she feared them—seemed to insure protection. It was odd, she told herself, that she should place so much confidence in Dakota, and her presence in the cabin with him was certainly a breach of propriety which—were her friends in the East to hear of it—would arouse much comment—entirely unfavorable to her. Yes, it was odd, yet considering Dakota, she was not in the least disturbed. So far his conduct toward her had been that of the perfect gentleman, and in spite of the recklessness that gleamed in his eyes whenever he looked at her she was certain that he would continue to be a gentleman.

  It was restful to lie and listen to the rain splashing on the roof and against the window, but sleep, for some unaccountable reason, seemed to grow farther from her—the recollection of events during the past few hours left no room in her thoughts for sleep. Turning, after a while, to seek a more comfortable position, she saw Dakota sitting at the table, on the side opposite her, watching her intently.

  “Can’t sleep, eh?” he said, when he saw her looking at him. “Storm bother you?”

  “I think it was the thunder that awakened me,” she returned. “Thunder always does. Evidently it disturbs you too.”

  “I haven’t been asleep,” he said in a curt tone.

  He continued to watch her with a quiet, appraising gaze. It was evident that he had been thinking of her when she had turned to look at him. She flushed with embarrassment over the thought that while she had been asleep he must have been considering her, and yet, looking closely at him now, she decided that his expression was frankly impersonal.

  He glanced at his watch. “You’ve been asleep two hours,” he said. “I’ve been watching you—and envying you.”

  “Envying me? Why? Are you troubled with insomnia?”

  He laughed. “Nothing so serious as that. It’s just thoughts.”

  “Pleasant ones, of course.”

  “You might call them pleasant. I’ve been thinking of you.”

  Sheila found no reply to make to this, but blushed again.

  “Thinking of you,” repeated Dakota. “Of the chance you took in coming out here alone—in coming into my shack. We’re twenty miles from town here—twenty miles from the Double R—the nearest ranch. It isn’t likely that a soul will pass here for a month. Suppose—”

  “We won’t ‘suppose,’ if you please,” said Sheila. Her face had grown slowly pale, but there was a confident smile on her lips as she looked at him.

  “No?” he said, watching her steadily. “Why? Isn’t it quite possible that you could have fallen in with a sort of man—”

  “As it happens, I did not,” interrupted Sheila.

  “How do you know?”

  Sheila’s gaze met his unwaveringly. “Because you are the man,” she said slowly.

  She thought she saw a glint of pleasure in his eyes, but was not quite certain, for his expression changed instantly.

  “Fate, or Providence—or whatever you are pleased to call the power that shuffles us flesh and blood mannikins around—has a way of putting us all in the right places. I expect that’s one of the reasons why you didn’t fall in with the sort of man I was going to tell you about,” said Dakota.

  “I don’t see what Fate has to do—” began Sheila, wondering at his serious tone.

  “Odd, isn’t it?” he drawled.

  “What is odd?”

  “That you don’t see. But lots of people don’t see. They’re chucked and shoved around like men on a chess board, and though they’re always interested they don’t usually know what it’s all about. Just as well too—usually.”

  “I don’t see—”

  He smiled mysteriously. “Did I say that I expected you to see?” he said. “There isn’t anything personal in this, aside from the fact that I was trying to show you that some one was foolish in sending you out here alone. Some day you’ll look back on your visit here and then you’ll understand.”

  He got up and walked to the door, opening it and standing there looking out into the darkness. Sheila watched him, puzzled by his mysterious manner, though not in the least afraid of him. Several times while he stood at the door he turned and looked at her and presently, when a gust of wind rushed in and Sheila shivered, he abruptly closed the door, barred it, and strode to the fireplace, throwing a fresh log into it. For a time he stood silently in front of the fire, his figure casting a long, gaunt shadow at Sheila’s feet, his gaze on her, grim, somber lines in his face. Presently he cleared his throat.

  “How old are you?” he said shortly.

  “Twenty-two.”

  “And you’ve lived East all your life. Lived well, too, I suppose—plenty of money, luxuries, happiness?”

  He caught her nod and continued, his lips curling a little. “Your father too, I reckon—has he been happy?”

  “I think so.”

  “That’s odd.” He had spoken more to himself than to Sheila and he looked at her with narrowed eyes when she answered.

  “What is odd? That my father should be happy—that I should?”

  “Odd that anyone who is happy in one place should want to leave that place and go to another. Maybe the place he went to wouldn’t be just right for him. What makes people want to move around like that?”

  “Perhaps you could answer that yourself,” suggested Sheila. “I am sure that you haven’t lived here in this part of the country all your life.”

  “How do you know that?” His gaze was quizzical and mocking.

  “I don’t know. But you haven’t.”

  “Well,” he said, “we’ll say I haven’t. But I wasn’t happy where I came from and I came here looking for happiness—and something else. That I didn’t find what I was looking for isn’t the question—mostly none of us find the things we’re looking for. But if I had been happy where I was I wouldn’t have come here. You say your father has been happy there; that he’s got plenty of money and all that. Then why should he want to live here?”

  “I believe I told you that he is coming here for his health.”

  His eyes lighted savagely. But Sheila did not catch their expression for at that moment she was looking at his shadow on the floor. How long, how grotesque, it seemed, and forbidding—like its owner.

  “So he’s got eve
rything he wants but his health. What made him lose that?”

  “How should I know?”

  “Just lost it, I reckon,” said Dakota subtly. “Cares and Worry?”

  “I presume. His health has been failing for about ten years.”

  Sheila was looking straight at Dakota now and she saw his face whiten, his lips harden. And when he spoke again there was a chill in his voice and a distinct pause between his words.

  “Ten years,” he said. “That’s a long time, isn’t it? A long time for a man who has been losing his health. And yet—” There was a mirthless smile on Dakota’s face—“ten years is a longer time for a man in good health who hasn’t been happy. Couldn’t your father have doctored—gone abroad—to recover his health? Or was his a mental sickness?”

  “Mental, I think. He worried quite a little.”

  Dakota turned from her, but not quickly enough to conceal the light of savage joy that flashed suddenly into his eyes.

  “Why!” exclaimed Sheila, voicing her surprise at the startling change in his manner; “that seems to please you!”

  “It does.” He laughed oddly. “It pleases me to find that I’m to have a neighbor who is afflicted with the sort of sickness that has been bothering me for—for a good many years.”

  There was a silence, during which Sheila yawned and Dakota stood motionless, looking straight ahead.

  “You like your father, I reckon?” came his voice presently, as his gaze went to her again.

  “Of course.” She looked up at him in surprise. “Why shouldn’t I like him?”

  “Of course you like him. Mostly children like their fathers.”

  “Children!” She glared scornfully at him. “I am twenty-two! I told you that before!”

  “So you did,” he returned, unruffled. “When is he coming out here?”

  “In a month—a month from to-day.” She regarded him with a sudden, new interest. “You are betraying a great deal of curiosity,” she accused. “Why?”

  “Why,” he answered slowly, “I reckon that isn’t odd, is it? He’s going to be my neighbor, isn’t he?”