The Trail to Yesterday

  CHAPTER IV

  THIS PICTURE AND THAT

  IT was a scene of wild, virgin beauty upon which Sheila Langford looked asshe sat on the edge of a grassy butte overlooking the Ute River, withDuncan, the Double R manager stretched out, full length beside her, agigantic picture on Nature's canvas, glowing with colors which the godshad spread with a generous touch.

  A hundred feet below Sheila and Duncan the waters of the river sweptaround the base of the butte, racing over a rocky bed toward a deep,narrow canyon farther down. Directly opposite the butte rose a shortslope, forming the other bank of the river. From the crest of the slopebegan a plain that stretched for many miles, merging at the horizon intosome pine-clad foothills. Behind the foothills were the mountains, theirsnow peaks shimmering in a white sky--remote, mysterious, seeming likeguardians of another world. The chill of the mountains contrasted sharplywith the slumberous luxuriance and color of the plains.

  Miles of grass, its green but slightly dulled with a thin covering ofalkali dust, spread over the plain; here and there a grove of trees rose,it seemed, to break the monotony of space. To the right the river doubledsharply, the farther bank fringed with alder and aspen, their tall stalksnodding above the nondescript river weeds; the near bank a continuing wallof painted buttes--red, picturesque, ragged, thrusting upward and outwardover the waters of the river. On the left was a stretch of broken country.Mammoth boulders were strewn here; weird rocks arose in inconceivablygrotesque formations; lava beds, dull and gray, circled the bald knobs ofsome low hills. Above it all swam the sun, filling the world with a clear,white light. It made a picture whose beauty might have impressed the mostunresponsive. Yet, though Sheila was looking upon the picture, herthoughts were dwelling upon another.

  This other picture was not so beautiful, and a vague unrest grippedSheila's heart as she reviewed it, carefully going over each gloomydetail. It was framed in the rain and the darkness of a yesterday. Therewas a small clearing there--a clearing in a dense wood beside a river--thesame river which she could have seen below her now, had she looked. In theforeground was a cabin. She entered the cabin and stood beside a tableupon which burned a candle. A man stood beside the table also--areckless-eyed man, holding a heavy revolver. Another man stood there,too--a man of God. While Sheila watched the man's lips opened; she couldhear the words that came through them--she would never forget them:

  "To have and to hold from this day forth ... till death do you part...."

  It was not a dream, it was the picture of an actual occurrence. She sawevery detail of it. She could hear her own protests, her threats, herpleadings; she lived over again her terror as she had crouched in the bunkuntil the dawn.

  The man had not molested her, had not even spoken to her after theceremony; had ignored her entirely. When the dawn came she had heard himtalking to the parson, but could not catch their words. Later she hadmounted her pony and had ridden away through the sunshine of the morning.She had been married--it was her wedding day.

  When she had reached the crest of a long rise after her departure from thecabin she had halted her pony to look back, hoping that it all might havebeen a dream. But it had not been a dream. There was the dense wood, theclearing, and the cabin. Beside them was the river. And there, ridingslowly away over the narrow trail which she had traveled the night before,was the parson--she could see his gray beard in the white sunlight. Dryeyed, she had turned from the scene. A little later, turning again, shesaw the parson fade into the horizon. That, she knew, was the last shewould ever see of him. He had gone out of her life forever--the desert hadswallowed him up.

  But the picture was still vivid; she had seen it during every wakingmoment of the month that she had been at the Double R ranch; it was beforeher every night in her dreams. It would not fade.

  She knew that the other picture was beautiful--the picture of this worldinto which she had ridden so confidently, yet she was afraid to dwell uponit for fear that its beauty would seem to mock her. For had not natureconspired against her? Yet she knew that she alone was to blame--she,obstinate, willful, heedless. Had not her father warned her? "Wait," hehad said, and the words flamed before her eyes--"wait until I go. Wait amonth. The West is a new country; anything, everything, can happen to youout there--alone."

  "Nothing can happen," had been her reply. "I will go straight from Lazetteto the Double R. See that you telegraph instructions to Duncan to meet me.It will be a change; I am tired of the East and impatient to be away fromit."

  Well, she had found a change. What would her father say when he heard ofit--of her marriage to a cowboy, an unprincipled scoundrel? What could hesay? The marriage could be annulled, of course! it was not legal, couldnot be legal. No law could be drawn which would recognize a marriage ofthat character, and she knew that she had only to tell her father to havethe machinery of the law set in motion. Could she tell him? Could she bearhis reproaches, his pity, after her heedlessness?

  What would her friends say when they heard of it--as they must hear if shewent to the law for redress? Her friends in the East whose good wishes,whose respect, she desired? Mockers there would be among them, she wascertain; there were mockers everywhere, and she feared their taunts, theshafts of sarcasm that would be launched at her--aye, that would strikeher--when they heard that she had passed a night in a lone cabin with astrange cowboy--had been married to him!

  A month had passed since the afternoon on which she had ridden up to theporch of the Double R ranchhouse to be greeted by Duncan with theinformation that he had that morning received a telegram from her fatherannouncing her coming. It had been brought from Lazette by a puncher whohad gone there for the mail, and Duncan was at that moment preparing todrive to Lazette to meet her, under the impression that she would arrivethat day. There had been a mistake, of course, but what did it matter now?The damage had been wrought and she closed her lips. A month had passedand she had not told--she would never tell.

  Conversations she had had with Duncan; he seemed a gentleman, living atthe Double R ranchhouse with his sister, but in no conversation withanyone had Sheila even mentioned Dakota's name, fearing that something inher manner might betray her secret. To everyone but herself the picture ofher adventure that night on the trail must remain invisible.

  She looked furtively at Duncan, stretched out beside her on the grass.What would he say if he knew? He would not be pleased, she was certain,for during the month that she had been at the Double R--riding out almostdaily with him--he had forced her to see that he had taken a liking toher--more, she herself had observed the telltale signs of something deeperthan mere liking.

  She had not encouraged this, of course, for she was not certain that sheliked Duncan, though he had treated her well--almost too well, in fact,for she had at times felt a certain reluctance in accepting his littleattentions--such personal service as kept him almost constantly at herside. His manner, too, was ingratiating; he smiled too much to suit her;his presumption of proprietorship over her irritated her not a little.

  As she sat beside him on the grass she found herself studying him, as shehad done many times when he had not been conscious of her gaze.

  He was thirty-two,--he had told her so himself in a burst ofconfidence--though she believed him to be much older. The sprinkling ofgray hair at his temples had caused her to place his age at thirty-sevenor eight. Besides, there were the lines of his face--the set lines ofcharacter--indicating established habits of thought which would not showso deeply in a younger face. His mouth, she thought, was a trifle weak,yet not exactly weak either, but full-lipped and sensual, with littlecurves at the corners which, she was sure, indicated either vindictivenessor cruelty, perhaps both.

  Taken altogether his was not a face to trust fully; its owner might be tooeasily guided by selfish considerations. Duncan liked to talk abouthimself; he had been talking about himself all the time that Sheila hadsat beside him reviewing the mental picture. But apparently he had aboutexhausted that subject now, and presently he looked up at her
, his eyesnarrowing quizzically.

  "You have been here a month now," he said. "How do you like the country?"

  "I like it," she returned.

  She was looking now at the other picture, watching the shimmer of the sunon the distant mountain peaks.

  "It improves," he said, "on acquaintance--like the people." He flashed asmile at her, showing his teeth.

  "I haven't seen very many people," she returned, not looking at him, butdetermined to ignore the personal allusion, to which, plainly, he hadmeant to guide her.

  "But those that you have seen?" he persisted.

  "I have formed no opinions."

  She _had_ formed an opinion, though, a conclusive one--concerning Dakota.But she had no idea of communicating it to Duncan. Until now, strangelyenough, she had had no curiosity concerning him. Bitter hatred andresentment had been so active in her brain that the latter had held noplace for curiosity. Or at least, if it had been there, it had been asubconscious emotion, entirely overshadowed by bitterness. Of late, thoughher resentment toward Dakota had not abated, she had been able to reviewthe incident of her marriage to him with more composure, and therefore agrowing curiosity toward the man seemed perfectly justifiable. Curiositymoved her now as she smiled deliberately at Duncan.

  "I have seen no one except your sister, a few cowboys, and yourself. Ihaven't paid much attention to the cowboys, I like your sister, and I amnot in the habit of telling people to their faces what I think of them.The country does not appear to be densely populated. Are there no otherranches around here--no other cattlemen?"

  "The Double R ranch covers an area of one hundred and sixty square miles,"said Duncan. "The ranchhouse is right near the center of it. For abouttwenty miles in every direction you won't find anybody but Double R men.There are line-camps, of course--dugouts where the men hang out over nightsometimes--but that's all. To my knowledge there are only two men withshacks around here, and they're mostly of no account. One of them isDoubler--Ben Doubler--who hangs out near Two Forks, and the other is afellow who calls himself Dakota, who's got a shack about twenty miles downthe Ute, a little off the Lazette trail."

  "They are ranchers, I suppose?"

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

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

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

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

  The flush had gone from Sheila's cheeks; she turned a pale face to theDouble 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 washere when I came and mebbe he's been here longer. Dakota's been here aboutfive years. He bought his brand--the Star--from another nester--TexasBlanca."

  "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 wherethere'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 doanything when cattle are stolen, but he acts mighty sudden when a man'shung 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 hanghim there ain't usually anything said."

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

  "They're too foxy."

  "If I were manager of this ranch and suspected anyone of stealing any ofits cattle, I would catch them!" There was a note of angry impatience inSheila'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 thingnosing out a rustler is a pretty ticklish proposition. Nobody goes aboutthat work with a whole lot of enthusiasm."

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

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

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

  "I forgot that you ain't acquainted out here," laughed the manager. "Noone is taking any chances with Dakota--not even the sheriff. There'ssomething about the cuss which seems to discourage a man when he's closeto him--close enough to do any shooting. I've seen Dakota throw down on aman so quick that it would make you dizzy."

  "Throw down?"

  "Shoot at a man. There was a gambler over in Lazette thought to euchreDakota. A gunman he was, from Texas, and--well, they carried the gamblerout. It was done so sudden that nobody 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 feelcheap. Creased him."

  "Creased him?"

  "Grazed his head with the bullet. Done it intentionally, they say. Toldfolks he didn't have any desire to send the gambler over the divide; justwanted to show him that when he was playin' with fire he ought to becareful. 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 youare all afraid of him?" she said, with a bitterness that surprised themanager.

  "Well, I reckon it would amount to about that, if you come right down tothe 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 foolishrisks."

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

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

  She took up the reins and urged her pony away from the butte and towardthe level that stretched away to the Double R buildings in the distance.For an instant Duncan stood looking after her, his face red withembarrassment, 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 theconversation.

  "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 killhim!"

  "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.