“A man don’t have to have such terribly keen eyes to be able to see a brand,” observed Dakota, drawling; “especially when he’s passed a whole lot of his time looking at brands.”
“That’s so,” agreed Langford. “I suppose you have been a cowboy a long time.”
“Longer than you’ve been a ranch owner.”
Langford looked quickly at Dakota, for now the latter was again busy with his saddle, but he could detect no sarcasm in his face, though plainly there had been a subtle quality of it in his voice.
“Then you know me?” he said.
“No. I don’t know you. I’ve put two and two together. I heard that Duncan was selling the Double R. I’ve seen your daughter. And you ride up here on a Double R horse. There ain’t no other strangers in the country. Then, of course, you’re the new owner of the Double R.”
Langford looked again at the inscrutable face of the man beside him and felt a sudden deep respect for him. Even if he had not witnessed the killing of Texas Blanca that day in Lazette he would have known the man before him for what he was—a quiet, cool, self-possessed man of much experience, who could not be trifled with.
“That’s right,” he admitted; “I am the new owner of the Double R. And I have come, my friend, to thank you for what you did for my daughter.”
“She told you, then?” Dakota’s gaze was again on Langford, an odd light in his eyes.
“Certainly.”
“She’s told you what?”
“How you rescued her from the quicksand.”
Dakota’s gaze was still on his visitor, quiet, intent. “She tell you anything else?” he questioned slowly.
“Why, what else is there to tell?” There was sincere curiosity in Langford’s voice, for Sheila had always told him everything that happened to her. It was not like her to keep anything secret from him.
“Did she tell you that she forgot to thank me for saving her?” There was a queer smile on Dakota’s lips, a peculiar, pleased glint in his eyes.
“No, she neglected to relate that,” returned Langford.
“Forgot it. That’s what I thought. Do you think she forgot it intentionally?”
“It wouldn’t be like her.”
“Of course not. And so she’s sent you over to thank me! Tell her no thanks are due. And if she inquires, tell her that the pony didn’t make a sound or a struggle when I shot him.”
“As it happens, she didn’t send me,” smiled Langford. “There was the excitement, of course, and I presume she forgot to thank you—possibly will ride over herself some day to thank you personally. But she didn’t send me—I came without her knowledge.”
“To thank me—for her?”
“No.”
“You’re visiting then. Or maybe just riding around to look at your range. Sit down.” He motioned to another box that stood near the door of the cabin.
Once Langford became seated Dakota again busied himself with the saddle, ignoring his visitor. Langford shifted uneasily on the box, for the seat was not to his liking and the attitude of his host was most peculiar. He fell silent also and kicked gravely and absently into a hummock with the toe of his boot.
Singularly enough, a plan which had taken form in his mind since Doubler had shot at him seemed suddenly to have many defects, though until now it had seemed complete enough. Out of the jumble of thoughts that had rioted in his brain after his departure from Two Forks crossing had risen a conviction. Doubler was a danger and a menace and must be removed. And there was no legal way to remove him, for though he had not proved on his land he was entitled to it to the limit set by the law, or until his death.
Langford’s purpose in questioning Duncan had been to learn of the presence of someone in the country who would not be averse to removing Doubler. The possibility of disposing of the nester in this manner had been before him ever since he had learned of his presence on the Two Forks. He had not been surprised when Duncan had mentioned Dakota as being a probable tool, for he had thought over the occurrence of the shooting in Lazette many times, and had been much impressed with Dakota’s coolness and his satanic cleverness with a six-shooter, and it seemed that it would be a simple matter to arrange with him for the removal of Doubler. Yes, it had seemed simple enough when he had planned it, and when Duncan had told him that Dakota was not on the “square.”
But now, looking covertly at the man, he found that he was not quite certain in spite of what Duncan had said. He had mentally worked out his plan of approaching Dakota many times. But now the defect in the plan seemed to be that he had misjudged his man—that Duncan had misjudged him. Plainly he would make a mistake were he to approach Dakota with a bold request for the removing of the nester—he must clothe it. Thus, after a long silence, he started obliquely.
“My friend,” he said, “it must be lonesome out here for you.”
“Not so lonesome.”
“It’s a big country, though—lots of land. There seems to be no end to it.”
“That’s right, there’s plenty of it. I reckon the Lord wasn’t in a stingy mood when he made it.”
“Yet there seem to be restrictions even here.”
“Restrictions?”
“Yes,” laughed Langford; “restrictions on a man’s desires.”
Dakota looked at him with a saturnine smile. “Restrictions on a man’s desires,” he repeated slowly. Then he laughed mirthlessly. “Some people wouldn’t be satisfied if they owned the whole earth. They’d be wanting the sun, moon, and stars thrown in for good measure.”
Langford laughed again. “That’s human nature, my friend,” he contended, determined not to be forced to digress from the main subject. “Have you got everything you want? Isn’t there anything besides what you already have that appeals to you? Have you no ambition?”
“There are plenty of things I want. Maybe I’d be modest, though, if I had ambition. We all want a lot of things which we can’t get.”
“Correct, my friend. Some of us want money, others desire happiness, still others are after something else. As you say, some of use are never satisfied—the ambitious ones.”
“Then you are ambitious?”
“You’ve struck it,” smiled Langford.
Dakota caught his gaze, and there was a smile of derision on his lips. “What particular thing are you looking for?” he questioned.
“Land.”
“Mine?” Dakota’s lips curled a little. “Doubler’s, then,” he added as Langford shook his head with an emphatic, negative motion. “He’s the only man who’s got land near yours.”
“That’s correct,” admitted Langford; “I want Doubler’s land.”
There was a silence for a few minutes, while Langford watched Dakota furtively as the latter gave his entire attention to his saddle.
“You’ve got all the rest of those things you spoke about, then—happiness, money, and such?” said Dakota presently, in a low voice.
“Yes. I am pretty well off there.”
“All you want is Doubler’s land?” He stopped working with the saddle and looked at Langford. “I reckon, if you’ve got all those things, that you ought to be satisfied. But of course you ain’t satisfied, or you wouldn’t want Doubler’s land. Did you offer to buy it?”
“I asked him to name his own figure, and he wouldn’t sell—wouldn’t even consider selling, though I offered him what I considered a fair price.”
“That’s odd, isn’t it? You’d naturally think that money could buy everything. But maybe Doubler has found happiness on his land. You couldn’t buy that from a man, you know. I suppose you care a lot about Doubler’s happiness—you wouldn’t want to take his land if you knew he was happy on it? Or don’t it make any difference to you?” There was faint sarcasm in his voice.
“As it happens,” said Langford, reddening a little, “this isn’t a question of happiness—it is merely business. Doubler’s land adjoins mine. I want to extend my holdings. I can’t extend in Doubler’s direction because Doubler c
ontrols the water rights. Therefore it is my business to see that Doubler gets out.”
“And sentiment has got no place in business. That right? It doesn’t make any difference to you that Doubler doesn’t want to sell; you want his land, and that settles it—so far as you are concerned. You don’t consider Doubler’s feelings. Well, I don’t know but that’s the way things are run—one man keeps what he can and another gets what he is able to get. What are you figuring to do about Doubler?”
Langford glanced at Dakota with an oily, significant smile. “I am new to the country, my friend,” he said. “I don’t know anything about the usual custom employed to force a man to give up his land. Could you suggest anything?”
Dakota deliberately took up a wax-end, rolled it, and squinted his eyes as he forced the end of the thread through the eye of the needle which he held in the other hand. So far as Langford could see he exhibited no emotion whatever; his face was inscrutable; he might not have heard.
Yet Langford knew that he had heard; was certain that he grasped the full meaning of the question; probably felt some emotion over it, and was masking it by appearing to busy himself with the saddle. Langford’s respect for him grew and he wisely kept silent, knowing that in time Dakota would answer. But when the answer did come it was not the one that Langford expected. Dakota’s eyes met his in a level gaze.
“Why don’t you shoot him yourself?” he said, drawling his words a little.
“Not taking any chances?” Dakota’s voice was filled with a cold sarcasm as he continued, after an interval during which Langford kept a discreetly still tongue. “Your business principles don’t take you quite that far, eh? And so you’ve come over to get me to shoot him? Why didn’t you say so in the beginning—it would have saved all this time.” He laughed coldly.
“What makes you think that you could hire me to put Doubler out of business?”
“I saw you shoot Blanca,” said Langford. “And I sounded Duncan.” It did not disturb him to discover that Dakota had all along been aware of the object of his visit. It rather pleased him, in fact, to be given proof of the man’s discernment—it showed that he was deep and clever.
“You saw me shoot Blanca,” said Dakota with a strange smile, “and Duncan told you I was the man to put Doubler away. Those are my recommendations.” His voice was slightly ironical, almost concealing a slight harshness. “Did Duncan mention that he was a friend of mine?” he asked. “No?” His smile grew mocking. “Just merely mentioned that I was uncommonly clever in the art of getting people—undesirable people—out of the way. Don’t get the idea, though, because Duncan told you, that I make a business of shooting folks. I put Blanca out of the way because it was a question of him or me—I shot him to save my own hide. Shooting Doubler would be quite another proposition. Still—” He looked at Langford, his eyes narrowing and smoldering with a mysterious fire.
It seemed that he was inviting Langford to make a proposal, and the latter smiled evilly. “Still,” he said, repeating Dakota’s word with a significant inflection, “you don’t refuse to listen to me. It would be worth a thousand dollars to me to have Doubler out of the way,” he added.
It was out now, and Langford sat silent while Dakota gazed into the distance that reached toward the nester’s cabin. Langford watched Dakota closely, but there was an absolute lack of expression in the latter’s face.
“How are you offering to pay the thousand?” questioned Dakota. “And when?”
“In cash, when Doubler isn’t here any more.”
Dakota looked up at him, his face a mask of immobility. “That sounds all right,” he said, with slow emphasis. “I reckon you’ll put it in writing?”
Langford’s eyes narrowed; he smiled craftily. “That,” he said smoothly, “would put me in your power. I have never been accused of being a fool by any of the men with whom I have done business. Don’t you think that at my age it is a little late to start?”
“I reckon we don’t make any deal,” laughed Dakota shortly.
“We’ll arrange it this way,” suggested Langford. “Doubler is not the only man I want to get rid of. I want your land, too. But”—he added as he saw Dakota’s lips harden—“I don’t purpose to proceed against you in the manner I am dealing with Doubler. I flatter myself that I know men quite well. I’d like to buy your land. What would be a fair price for it?”
“Five thousand.”
“We’ll put it this way, then,” said Langford, briskly and silkily. “I will give you an agreement worded in this manner: ‘One month after date I promise to pay to Dakota the sum of six thousand dollars, in consideration of his rights and interest in the Star brand, provided that within one month from date he persuades Ben Doubler to leave Union county.’” He looked at Dakota with a significant smile. “You see,” he said, “that I am not particularly desirous of being instrumental in causing Doubler’s death—you have misjudged me.”
Dakota’s eyes met his with a glance of perfect knowledge. His smile possessed a subtly mocking quality—which was slightly disconcerting to Langford.
“I reckon you’ll be an angel—give you time,” he said. “I am accepting that proposition, though,” he added. “I’ve been wanting to leave here—I’ve got tired of it. And”—he continued with a mysterious smile—“if things turn out as I expect, you’ll be glad to have me go.” He rose from the bench. “Let’s write that agreement,” he suggested.
They entered the cabin, and a few minutes later Dakota sat again on the box in the lee of the cabin wall, mending his saddle, the signed agreement in his pocket. Smiling, Langford rode the river trail, satisfied with the result of his visit. Turning once—as he reached the rise upon which Sheila had halted that morning after leaving Dakota’s cabin, Langford looked back. Dakota was still busy with his saddle. Langford urged his pony down the slope of the rise and vanished from view. Then Dakota ceased working on the saddle, drew out the signed agreement and read it through many times.
“That man,” he said finally, looking toward the crest of the slope where Langford had disappeared, “thinks he has convinced me that I ought to kill my best friend. He hasn’t changed a bit—not a damned bit!”
CHAPTER X
DUNCAN ADDS TWO AND TWO
Had Langford known that there had been a witness to his visit to Dakota he might not have ridden away from the latter’s cabin so entirely satisfied with the result of his interview.
Duncan had been much interested in Langford’s differences with Doubler. He had agitated the trouble, and he fully expected Langford to take him into his confidence should any aggressive movement be contemplated. He had even expected to be allowed to plan the details of the scheme which would have as its object the downfall of the nester, for thus he hoped to satisfy his personal vengeance against the latter.
But since the interview with Doubler at Doubler’s cabin, Langford had been strangely silent regarding his plans. Not once had he referred to the nester, and his silence had nettled Duncan. Langford had ignored his hints, had returned monosyllabic replies to his tentative questions, causing the manager to appear to be an outsider in an affair in which he felt a vital interest.
It was annoying, to say the least, and Duncan’s nature rebelled against the slight, whether intentional or accidental. He had waited patiently until the morning following his conversation with Langford about Dakota, certain that the Double R owner would speak, but when after breakfast the next morning Langford had ridden away without breaking his silence, the manager had gone into the ranchhouse, secured his field glasses, mounted his pony, and followed.
He kept discreetly in the rear, lingering in the depressions, skirting the bases of the hills, concealing himself in draws and behind boulders—never once making the mistake of appearing on the skyline. And when Langford was sitting on the box in front of Dakota’s cabin, the manager was deep into the woods that surrounded the clearing where the cabin stood, watching intently through his field glasses.
He saw Langford d
epart, remained after his departure to see Dakota repeatedly read the signed agreement. Of course, he was entirely ignorant of what had transpired, but there was little doubt in his mind that the two had reached some sort of an understanding. That their conversation and subsequent agreement concerned Doubler he had little doubt either, for fresh in his mind was a recollection of his conversation with Langford, distinguished by Langford’s carefully guarded questions regarding Dakota’s ability with the six-shooter. He felt that Langford was deliberately leaving him out of the scheme, whatever it was.
Puzzled and raging inwardly over the slight, Duncan did not return to the ranchhouse that day and spent the night at one of the line camps. The following day he rode in to the ranchhouse to find that Langford had gone out riding with Sheila. Morose, sullen, Duncan again rode abroad, returning with the dusk. In his conversation with Langford that night the Double R owner made no reference to Doubler, and, studying Sheila, Duncan thought she seemed depressed.
During her ride that day with her father Sheila had received a startling revelation of his character. She had questioned him regarding his treatment of Doubler, ending with a plea for justice for the latter. For the first time during all the time she had known Langford she had seen an angry intolerance in his eyes, and though his voice had been as bland and smooth as ever, it did not heal the wound which had been made in her heart over the discovery that he could feel impatient with her.
“My dear Sheila,” he said, “I should regret to find that you are interested in my business affairs.”
“Doubler declares that you are unjust,” she persisted, determined to do her best to avert the trouble that seemed impending.
“Doubler is an obstacle in the path of progress and will get the consideration he deserves,” he said shortly. “Please do not meddle with what does not concern you.”
The Charles Alden Seltzer Megapack Page 166
