“That’s evasion,” she said, looking straight at him, hoping that he would relent and speak.
“Is it?” In his unwavering eyes she saw a glint of grim humor. “Well, that’s the answer. I am not going to kill Doubler—if it will do you any good to know. I don’t kill my friends.”
“Then,” she said eagerly, catching at the hope which he held out to her, “father didn’t hire you to kill him? You didn’t talk to father about that?”
His lips curled. “Why don’t you ask your father about that?”
The hope died within her. Dakota’s words and manner implied that her father had tried to employ him to make way with the nester, but that he had refused. She had not been wrong—Duncan had not been wrong in his suspicion that her father was planning the death of the nester. Duncan’s only mistake was in including Dakota in the scheme.
She had hoped against hope that she might discover that Duncan had been wrong altogether; that she had done her father an injury in believing him capable of deliberately planning a murder. She looked again at Dakota. There was no mistaking his earnestness, she thought, for there was no evidence of deceit or knavery in his face, nor in the eyes that were steadily watching her.
She put her hands to her face and shivered, now thoroughly convinced of her father’s guilt; feeling a sudden repugnance for him, for everybody and everything in the country, excepting Doubler.
She had done all she could, however, to prevent them killing Doubler—all she could do except to warn Doubler of his danger, and she would go to him immediately. Without looking again at Dakota she turned, dry eyed and pale, urging her pony up the trail toward the nester’s cabin, leaving Dakota sitting silent in his saddle, watching her.
She lingered on the trail, riding slowly, halting when she came to a spot which offered a particularly good view of the country surrounding her, for in spite of her lonesomeness she could not help appreciating the beauty of the land, with its towering mountains, its blue sky, its vast, yawning distances, and the peacefulness which seemed to be everywhere except in her heart.
She presently reached the Two Forks and urged her pony through the shallow water of its crossing, riding up the slight, intervening slope and upon a stretch of plain beside a timber grove. A little later she came to the corral gates, where she dismounted and hitched her pony to a rail, smiling to herself as she thought of how surprised Doubler would be to see her.