LITMIR.BIZ

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a dead shot, though,” he suggested.

      “I’m allowing that,” grudgingly returned Duncan. “And,” he added, “it’s been hinted that all his shooting scrapes haven’t been on the level.”

      “He is not straight, then?” said Langford, his eyes gleaming. “Not ‘square,’ as you say in this country?”

      “I reckon there ain’t nothing square about him,” returned Duncan, glad of an opportunity to defame his enemy.

      Again Langford did not allow Duncan to see his smile, and he deftly directed the current of the conversation into other channels.

      He rode out again that day, taking the river trail and passing Dakota’s cabin, but Dakota himself was nowhere to be seen and at dusk Langford returned to the Double R. During the evening meal he enveloped himself with a silence which proved impenetrable. He retired early, to Duncan’s surprise, and the next morning, without announcing his plans to anyone, saddled his pony and rode away toward the river trail.

      He took a circuitous route to reach it, riding slowly, with the air and manner of a man who is thinking deep thoughts, smiling much, though many times grimly.

      “Dakota isn’t square,” he said once aloud during one of his grim smiles.

      When he came to the quicksand crossing he halted and examined the earth in the vicinity, smiling more broadly at the marks and hoof prints in the hard sand near the water’s edge. Then he rode on.

      Two or three miles from the quicksand crossing he came suddenly upon Dakota’s cabin. Dakota himself was repairing a saddle in the shade of the cabin wall, and for all that Langford could see he was entirely unaware of his approach. He saw Dakota look up when he passed the corral gate, and when he reached a point about twenty feet distant he observed a faint smile on Dakota’s face.

      “Howdy, stranger,” came the latter’s voice.

      “How are you, my friend?” greeted Langford easily.

      It was not hard for Langford to adopt an air of familiarity toward the man who had figured prominently in his thoughts during a great many of the previous twenty-four hours. He dismounted from his pony, hitched the animal to a rail of the corral fence, and approached Dakota, standing in front of him and looking down at him with a smile.

      Dakota apparently took little interest in his visitor, for keeping his seat on the box upon which he had been sitting when Langford had first caught sight of him, he continued to give his attention to the saddle.

      “I’m from the Double R,” offered Langford, feeling slightly less important, conscious that somehow the familiarity that he had felt existed between them a moment before was a singularly fleeting thing.

      “I noticed that,” responded Dakota, still busy with his saddle.

      “How?”

      “I reckon that you’ve forgot that your horse has got a brand on him?”

      “You’ve got keen eyes, my friend,” laughed Langford.

      “Have I?” Dakota had not looked at Langford until now, and as he spoke he raised his head and gazed fairly into the latter’s eyes.

      For a moment neither man moved or spoke. It seemed to Langford, as he gazed into the steely, fathomless blue of the eyes which held his—held them, for now as he looked it was the first time in his life that his gaze had met a fellow being’s steadily—that he could see there an unmistakable, grim mockery. And that was all, for whatever other emotions Dakota felt, they were invisible to Langford. He drew a deep breath, suddenly aware that before him was a man exactly like himself in one respect—skilled in the art of keeping his emotions to himself. Langford had not met many such men; usually he was able to see clear through a man—able to read him. But this man he could not read. He was puzzled and embarrassed over the discovery. His gaze finally wavered; he looked away.

      “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

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