The Trail to Yesterday Part 8

In the Red Dog saloon some punchers on a holiday played cards at various tables, quietly drinking. Behind the rough bar Pete Moulin, the proprietor stood, talking to his bartender, Blacky.

"So that jasper's back again," commented the proprietor.

"Which?" The bartender followed the proprietor's gaze, which was on a man seated at a card table, his profile toward them, playing cards with several other men. The bartender's face showed perplexity.

Moulin laughed. "I forgot you ain't been here that long," he said. "That was before your time. That fellow settin' sideways to us is Texas Blanca."

"What's he callin' himself 'Texas' for?" queried the bartender. "He looks more like a greaser."

"Breed, I reckon," offered the proprietor. "Claims to have punched cows in Texas before he come here."

"What's he allowin' to be now?"

"n.o.body knows. Used to own the Star--Dakota's brand. Sold out to Dakota five years ago. Country got too hot for him an' he had to pull his freight."

"Rustler?"

"You've said something. He's been suspected of it. But n.o.body's talkin'

very loud about it."

"Not safe?"

"Not safe. He's lightning with a six. Got his nerve to come back here, though."

"How's that?"

"Ain't you heard about it? I thought everybody'd heard about that deal.

Blanca sold Dakota the Star. Then he pulled his freight immediate. A week or so later Duncan, of the Double R, rides up to Dakota's shack with a bunch of Double R boys an' accuses Dakota of rustlin' Double R cattle.

Duncan had found twenty Double R calves runnin' with the Star cattle which had been marked secret. Blanca had run his iron on them an' sold them to Dakota for Star stock. Dakota showed Duncan his bill of sale, all regular, an' of course Duncan couldn't blame him. But there was some hard words pa.s.sed between Duncan an' Dakota, an' Dakota ain't allowin' they're particular friends since.

"Dakota had to give up the calves, sure enough, an' he did. But sore!

Dakota was sure some disturbed in his mind. He didn't show it much, bein'

one of them quiet kind, but he says to me one day not long after Duncan had got the calves back: 'I've been stung, Pete,' he says, soft an' even like; 'I've been stung proper, by that d.a.m.ned oiler. Not that I'm carin'

for the money end of it; Duncan findin' them calves with my stock has damaged my reputation.' Then he laffed--one of them little short laffs which he gets off sometimes when things don't just suit him--the way he's laffed a couple of times when someone's tried to run a cold lead proposition in on him. He fair freezes my blood when he gets it off.

"Well, he says to me: 'Mebbe I'll be runnin' in with Blanca one of these days.' An' that's all he ever says about it. Likely he expected Blanca to come back. An' sure enough he has. Reckon he thinks that mebbe Dakota didn't get wise to the calf deal."

"In his place," said Blacky, eyeing Blanca furtively, "I'd be makin' some inquiries. Dakota ain't no man to trifle with."

"Trifle!" Moulin's voice was pregnant with awed admiration. "I reckon there ain't no one who knows Dakota's goin' to trifle with him--he's discouraged that long ago. Square, too, square as they make 'em."

"The Lord knows the country needs square men," observed Blacky.

He caught a sign from a man seated at a table and went over to him with a bottle and a gla.s.s. While Blacky was engaged in this task the door opened and Dakota came in.

Moulin's admiration and friends.h.i.+p for Dakota might have impelled him to warn Dakota of the presence of Blanca, and he did hold up a covert finger, but Dakota at that moment was looking in another direction and did not observe the signal.

He continued to approach the bar and Blacky, having a leisure moment, came forward and stood ready to serve him. A short nod of greeting pa.s.sed between the three, and Blacky placed a bottle on the bar and reached for a gla.s.s. Dakota made a negative sign with his head--short and resolute.

"I'm in for supplies," he laughed, "but not that."

"Not drinkin'?" queried Moulin.

"I'm pure as the driven snow," drawled Dakota.

"How long has that been goin' on?" Moulin's grin was skeptical.

"A month."

Moulin looked searchingly at Dakota, saw that he was in earnest, and suddenly reached a hand over the bar.

"Shake!" he said. "I hate to knock my own business, an' you've been a pretty good customer, but if you mean it, it's the most sensible thing you ever done. Of course you didn't hit it regular, but there's been times when I've thought that if I could have three or four customers like you I'd retire in a year an' spend the rest of my life countin' my dust!" He was suddenly serious, catching Dakota's gaze and winking expressively.

"Friend of yourn here," he said.

Dakota took a flas.h.i.+ng glance at the men at the card tables and Moulin saw his lips straighten and harden. But in the next instant he was smiling gravely at the proprietor.

"Thanks, Pete," he said quietly. "But you're some reckless with the English language when you're calling him my friend. Maybe he'll be proving that he didn't mean to skin me on that deal."

He smiled again and then left the bar and strode toward Blanca. The latter continued his card playing, apparently unaware of Dakota's approach, but at the sound of his former victim's voice he turned and looked up slowly, his face wearing a bland smile.

It was plain to Moulin that Blanca had known all along of Dakota's presence in the saloon--perhaps he had seen him enter. The other card players ceased playing and leaned back in their chairs, watching, for some of them knew something of the calf deal, and there was that in Dakota's greeting to Blanca which warned them of impending trouble.

"Blanca," said Dakota quietly, "you can pay for those calves now."

It pleased Blanca to dissemble. But it was plain to Moulin--as it must have been plain to everybody who watched Blanca--that a shadow crossed his face at Dakota's words. Evidently he had entertained a hope that his duplicity had not been discovered.

"Calves?" he said. "What calves, my frien'?" He dropped his cards to the table and turned his chair around, leaning far back in it and hooking his right thumb in his cartridge belt, just above the holster of his pistol.

"I theenk it mus' be mistak'."

"Yes," returned Dakota, a slow, grimly humorous smile reaching his face, "it was a mistake. You made it, Blanca. Duncan found it out. Duncan took the calves--they belonged to him. You're going to pay for them."

"I pay for heem?" The bland smile on Blanca's face had slowly faded with the realization that his victim was not to be further misled by him. In place of the smile his face now wore an expression of sneering contempt, and his black eyes had taken on a watchful glitter. He spoke slowly: "I pay for no calves, my frien'."

"You'll pay," said Dakota, an ominously quiet drawl in his voice, "or----"

"Or what?" Blanca showed his white teeth in a tigerish smirk.

"This town ain't big enough for both of us," said Dakota, his eyes cold and alert as they watched Blanca's hand at his cartridge belt. "One of us will leave it by sundown. I reckon that's all."

He deliberately turned his back on Blanca and walked to the door, stepping down into the street. Blanca looked after him, sneering. An instant later Blanca turned and smiled at his companions at the table.

"It ain't my funeral," said one of the card players, "but if I was in your place I'd begin to think that me stayin' here was crowdin' the population of this town by one."

Blanca's teeth gleamed. "My frien'," he said insinuatingly, "it's your deal." His smile grew. "Thees is a nize country," he continued. "I like it ver' much. I come back here to stay. Dakota--hees got the Star too cheap."

He tapped his gun holster significantly. "To-night Dakota hees go somewhere else. To-morrow who takes the Star? You?" He pointed to each of the card players in turn. "You?" he questioned. "You take it?" He smiled at their negative signs. "Well, then, Blanca take it. Peste! Dakota give himself till sundown!"