“If I were manager of this ranch and suspected anyone of stealing any of its cattle, I would catch them!” There was a note of angry impatience in Sheila’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 thing nosing out a rustler is a pretty ticklish proposition. Nobody goes about that work with a whole lot of enthusiasm.”
“Why?” There was scorn in Sheila’s voice, scorn in her uplifted chin. But she did not look at Duncan.
“Why?” he repeated. “Well, because it’s perfectly natural for a man to want to live as long as he can. I don’t like them nesters—Dakota especially—and I’d like mighty well to get something on them. But I ain’t taking any chances on Dakota.”
“Why?” Again the monosyllable was pregnant with scorn.
“I forgot that you ain’t acquainted out here,” laughed the manager. “No one is taking any chances with Dakota—not even the sheriff. There’s something about the cuss which seems to discourage a man when he’s close to him—close enough to do any shooting. I’ve seen Dakota throw down on a man so quick that it would make you dizzy.”
“Throw down?”
“Shoot at a man. There was a gambler over in Lazette thought to euchre Dakota. A gunman he was, from Texas, and—well, they carried the gambler out. 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 feel cheap. Creased him.”