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diff --git a/29668-8.txt b/29668-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..4448be5 --- /dev/null +++ b/29668-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,10206 @@ +Project Gutenberg's The Flockmaster of Poison Creek, by George W. Ogden + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Flockmaster of Poison Creek + +Author: George W. Ogden + +Illustrator: P. V. E. Ivory + +Release Date: August 11, 2009 [EBook #29668] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE FLOCKMASTER OF POISON CREEK *** + + + + +Produced by Roger Frank and the Online Distributed +Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net + + + + + +[Illustration: Neither spoke, a daze over them, the dull shock of death's +close passing bewildering and deep. _Page_ 120] + + + + +THE FLOCKMASTER OF POISON CREEK + +BY + +G. W. OGDEN + +AUTHOR OF + +THE DUKE OF CHIMNEY BUTTE, THE LAND OF LAST CHANCE, Etc. + +FRONTISPIECE BY P. V. E. IVORY + +GROSSET & DUNLAP + +PUBLISHERS NEW YORK + +Made in the United States of America + + + + +Copyright + +A. C. McClurg & Co. + +1921 + +Published March, 1921 + +Copyrighted in Great Britain + + + + +CONTENTS + + I The Sheep Country 1 + II Swan Carlson 15 + III The Fight 27 + IV Keeper of the Flock 34 + V Tim Sullivan 49 + VI Eyes in the Firelight 57 + VII The Easiest Lesson 67 + VIII The Sheep-Killer 76 + IX A Two-Gun Man 87 + X Wild Riders of the Range 97 + XI Hector Hall Sets a Beacon 111 + XII One Comes to Serve 127 + XIII A Fight Almost Lost 136 + XIV The Lonesomeness 149 + XV Only One Jacob 160 + XVI Reid Begins His Play 173 + XVII Hertha Carlson 181 + XVIII Swan Carlson's Day 195 + XIX Not Cut out for a Sheepman 207 + XX A Million Gallops Off 212 + XXI Tim Sullivan Breaks a Contract 222 + XXII Phantoms of Fever 233 + XXIII Concerning Mary 239 + XXIV More About Mary 252 + XXV One Man's Joke 262 + XXVI Payment on Account 270 + XXVII A Summons in the Night 287 + XXVIII Swan Carlson Laughs 296 + XXIX Sheepman--And More 308 + + + + +THE FLOCKMASTER OF POISON CREEK + +CHAPTER I + +THE SHEEP COUNTRY + + +So John Mackenzie had put his foot upon the road. This after he had +reasoned it out as a mathematical problem, considering it as a matter +of quantities alone. There was nothing in school-teaching at sixty +dollars a month when men who had to carry a rubber stamp to sign their +names to their checks were making fortunes all around him in sheep. + +That was the way it looked to John Mackenzie the morning he set out +for Poison Creek to hunt up Tim Sullivan and strike him for a job. +Against the conventions of the country, he had struck out on foot. +That also had been reasoned out in a cool and calculative way. A +sheepherder had no use for a horse, in the first place. Secondly and +finally, the money a horse would represent would buy at least twelve +head of ewes. With questioning eyes upon him when he left Jasper, and +contemptuous eyes upon him when he met riders in his dusty journey, +John Mackenzie had pushed on, his pack on his back. + +There was not a book in that pack. John Mackenzie, schoolmaster, had +been a bondslave of books in that country for four obscure, well-nigh +profitless years, and he was done with them for a while. The less a +sheepman knew about books, the more he was bound to know about sheep, +for sheep would be the object and aim of his existence. Mackenzie knew +plenty of sheepmen who never had looked into any kind of a book but a +bank-deposit book in their lives. That seemed to be education enough +to carry them very nicely along, even to boost them to the state +legislature, and lift one of them to the United States senate. So, +what was the use of worrying along on a mission of enlightenment at +sixty dollars a month? + +Mackenzie had not come into the West in a missionary spirit at the +beginning. He had not believed the youth of that section to be in any +greater depths of ignorance than elsewhere in this more or less +favored land. But from his earliest years he had entertained romantic +notions, adventurous desires. With his normal-school certificate in +his breast pocket, tight trousers on his rather long legs, a short +vest scarcely meeting them at the waistband, he had traveled into the +West, seeking romance, alert for adventure. + +When he arrived at Jasper, which was only the inter-mountain West, and +far from the golden coast of his most fervid dreams, he found that +adventure and romance apparently had packed up and gone elsewhere +years ahead of him. There was nothing nearer either of them in Jasper +than a tame gambling-joint in the back end of a saloon, where greasy, +morose sheepherders came to stake quarters on roulette and faro, where +railroaders squandered away their wages, leaving the grocerymen +unpaid. And there was no romance for John Mackenzie in any such +proceeding as that. + +Simple, you will see he was; open-faced and guileless as the day. +Farm-bred, raw-boned, slow of speech, clear of eye, no vices, no +habits that pulled a man down, unless a fondness for his briar-root +pipe might be so classed. But in the way Mackenzie smoked the pipe it +was more in the nature of a sacrifice to his gods of romance than even +a mild dissipation. + +In the four years of his school-teaching at Jasper Mackenzie slowly +grew out of his extreme rawness of appearance. His legs hardened from +long rambles over the hills, his face browned like an outdoor man's, +his rustic appearance, his clabber-days shyness, all slowly dissolved +away. But the school board was not cognizant of any physical or mental +strengthening in him. He was worth sixty dollars a month to that +slow-thinking body when he came to Jasper; he was worth no more than +sixty dollars when he threw up the job and left. + +Romance and adventure had called him away to the road at last, but the +romance of sheep-riches, the adventure of following a flock over the +sage-gray hills. Maybe he would find it too late even to glimpse them +when he arrived in the heart of the sheeplands; perhaps times had +shifted since the heavy-jowled illiterates whom he had met in Jasper +began their careers with a few pounds of dried apples and uncommon +endurance for hardships in the open fields. + +Simple, they thought him down in Jasper, in the mild simplicity of a +preacher or any man who would not fight. In their classification he +was a neutral force, an emasculated, mild, harmless creature who held +the child's view of life from much association with children. He often +had heard it said. + +A man never could advance to notability in a community that rated him +as mildly simple; he would have a hard time of it even to become +notorious. Only one man there had taken an interest in him as man to +man, a flockmaster who had come into that country twenty years before, +a schoolteacher like himself. + +This man had kicked up the golden dust before Mackenzie's eyes with +his tales of the romance of the range, the romance of sheep-riches, +the quick multiplication of a band run on the increase-sharing plan. +This man urged Mackenzie to join him, taking a band of sheep on +shares. But his range was in sight of Jasper; there was no romance on +his hills. So Mackenzie struck out for the headwaters of Poison Creek, +to find Tim Sullivan, notable man among the sheep-rich of his day. + +It was a five-days' journey on foot, as he calculated it--nobody in +that country ever had walked it, as far as he could learn--to Tim +Sullivan's ranch on Poison Creek. Now, in the decline of the fifth day +he had come to Poison Creek, a loud, a rapid, and boisterous stream +which a man could cross in two jumps. It made a great amount of noise +in its going over the boulders in its bed, as a little water in a vast +arid land probably was justified by its importance in doing. It was +the first running water Mackenzie had met since leaving the Big Wind, +clear as if it came unpolluted by a hoof or a hand from its mountain +source. + +But somewhere along its course Tim Sullivan grazed and watered forty +thousand sheep; and beyond him were others who grazed and watered many +times that number. Poison Creek might well enough merit its name from +the slaver of many flocks, the schoolmaster thought, although he knew +it came from pioneer days, and was as obscure as pioneer names usually +are obscure. + +And some day he would be watering his thousands of sheep along its +rushing vein. That was John Mackenzie's intent and purpose as he +trudged the dusty miles of gray hills, with their furze of gray sage, +and their gray twilights which fell with a melancholy silence as +chilling as the breath of death. For John Mackenzie was going into +the sheeplands to become a master. He had determined it all by +mathematical rule. + +There was the experience to be gained first, and it was cheaper to do +that at another man's expense than his own. He knew how the right kind +of a man could form a partnership with a flockmaster sometimes; he had +heard stories of such small beginnings leading to large ownership and +oily prosperity. Jasper had examples of its own; he was familiar with +them all. + +Some of them began as herders on the basis of half the increase from a +stated number of sheep not more than ten years past. Now they looked +upon a sixty-dollars-a-month schoolteacher with the eyes of +superiority, as money always despises brains which it is obliged to +hire, probably because brains cannot devise any better method of +finding the necessary calories than that of letting themselves out by +the month. + +Tim Sullivan needed herders; he had advertised for them in the Jasper +paper. Besides, Tim had the name of a man who could see the +possibilities in another. He had put more than one young fellow on the +way of success in the twenty years he had been running sheep on the +Poison Creek range. But failing to land a partnership deal with +Sullivan, Mackenzie was prepared to take a job running sheep by the +month. Or, should he find all avenues to experience at another man's +expense closed to him, he was ready to take the six hundred dollars +saved out of his years of book bondage and buy a little flock of his +own. Somewhere in that wide expanse of government-owned land he would +find water and grazing, and there his prosperity would increase. + +Sheep had visited the creek lately at the point where Mackenzie first +encountered it, but there were no dusty flocks in sight billowing over +the hills. Tim Sullivan's house was not to be seen any more than +sheep, from the highest hill in the vicinity. It must be several miles +ahead of him still, Mackenzie concluded, remembering that Poison Creek +was long. Yet he hoped he might reach it by nightfall, for his feet +were growing weary of the untrodden way they had borne him for a +hundred and fifty miles, more or less. + +He pushed on, now and again crossing the broad trail left by bands of +sheep counting two or three thousand, feeling the lonesomeness of the +unpeopled land softened by these domestic signs. Sunset, and no sight +of a house; nightfall, and not the gleam of a light to show him either +herder's camp or permanent domicile of man. + +Mackenzie lingered beside the clamoring water in a little valley where +the uncropped grass was lush about his feet, considering making camp +there for the night. It was a pleasant place for a land so bleak, even +in summer, as that country of high table-lands and rolling gray hills. +As he started to unsling his pack he caught the dim note of somebody's +voice raised in song, and stood so, hand on the strap, listening. + +The voice was faint, broken by the distance, yet cheering because it +was a voice. Mackenzie pressed up the hill, hoping to be able to +thread the voice back to its source from that eminence. As he neared +the top the voice came clearer; as he paused to listen, it seemed +quite close at hand. It was a woman singing, and this was the manner +of her song: + + _Na-a-fer a-lo-o-one, na-a-fer a-lone, + He promise na-fer to leafe me, + Na-fer to leafe me a-lone!_ + +The valley whence came the song was quite dark below him, and darker +for the indefinite blotch of something that appeared to be trees. In +that grove the house that sheltered the melancholy singer must be +hidden, so completely shrouded that not even a gleam of light escaped +to lead him to the door. Mackenzie stood listening. There was no other +sound rising from that sequestered homestead than the woman's song, +and this was as doleful as any sound that ever issued from human +lips. + +Over and over again the woman sang the three lines, a silence after +the last long, tremulous note which reached to the traveler's heart, +more eloquent in its expression of poignant loneliness than the +hopeless repetition of the song. He grinned dustily as he found +himself wishing, in all seriousness, that somebody would take a day +off and teach her the rest of the hymn. + +Mackenzie's bones were weary of the road, hard as he tried to make +himself believe they were not, and that he was a tough man, ready to +take and give as it might come to him in the life of the sheeplands. +In his heart he longed for a bed that night, and a cup of hot coffee +to gladden his gizzard. Coffee he had not carried with him, much less +a coffeepot; his load would be heavy enough without them, he rightly +anticipated, before he reached Tim Sullivan's. Nothing more cheering +than water out of the holes by the way had passed his lips these five +days. + +He could forgive the woman her song if she would supply some of the +comforts of those who luxuriated in houses for just this one night. He +went on, coming soon to barbed wire along the way, and presently to a +gap in it that let him in among the trees which concealed the house. + +It was a small, low cabin, quite buried among the trees, no light +showing as Mackenzie drew near, although the voice of the woman still +rose in the plaintive monotony of her song. + +Mackenzie put as much noise into his arrival as was possible by +walking heavily, knowing very well that a surprise by night is not a +good beginning for a claim of hospitality. The woman must have heard, +for her song ceased in the middle of a word. At the corner of the +house Mackenzie saw a dim light falling through an open door, into +which the shadow of the woman came. + +A little way from the door Mackenzie halted, hat in hand, giving the +woman good evening. She stood within the threshold a few feet, the +light of the lantern hanging in an angle of the wall over her, bending +forward in the pose of one who listened. She was wiping a plate, which +she held before her breast in the manner of a shield, stiffly in both +hands. Her eyes were large and full of a frightened surprise, her pale +yellow hair was hanging in slovenly abandon down her cheeks and over +her ears. + +She was a tall woman, thin of frame, worn and sad, but with a faded +comeliness of face, more intelligence apparent in it than is commonly +shown by Scandinavian women of the peasant class who share the labors +and the loads of their men on the isolated homesteads of the +Northwest. She stood so, leaning and staring, her mouth standing open +as if the song had been frightened out so quickly that it had no time +to shut the door. + +"Good evening, madam," said Mackenzie again. + +She came out of her paralysis of fright and surprise at the assuring +sound of his voice. He drew nearer, smiling to show his friendly +intention, the lantern light on the close, flat curls of his fair +hair, which lay damp on temples and forehead. + +Tall after his kind was this traveler at her door, spare of flesh, +hollow of cheeks, great of nose, a seriousness in his eyes which +balanced well the marvelous tenderness of his smile. Not a handsome +man, but a man whose simple goodness shone in his features like a +friendly lamp. The woman in the door advanced a timid step; the color +deepened in her pale and melancholy face. + +"I thought it was my man," she said, her voice soft and slow, a +labored effort in it to speak without the harsh dialect so apparent in +her song. + +"I am a traveler, Mackenzie is my name, on my way to Tim Sullivan's +sheep ranch. My grub has run low; I'd like to get some supper if you +can let me have a bite." + +"There is not much for a gentleman to eat," said she. + +"Anything at all," Mackenzie returned, unslinging his pack, letting it +down wearily at his feet. + +"My man would not like it. You have heard of Swan Carlson?" + +"No; but I'll pay for it; he'll have no right to kick." + +"You have come far if you have not heard of Swan Carlson. His name is +on the wind like a curse. Better you would go on, sir; my man would +kill you if he found you in this house." + +She moved a step to reach and lay the plate on a table close at hand. +As she lifted her foot there was the sharp clink of metal, as of a +dragging chain. Mackenzie had heard it before when she stepped nearer +the door, and now he bent to look into the shadow that fell over the +floor from the flaring bottom of the lantern. + +"Madam," said he, indignantly amazed by the barbarous thing he beheld, +"does that man keep you a prisoner here?" + +"Like a dog," she said, nodding her untidy head, lifting her foot to +show him the chain. + +It was a common trace-chain from plow harness; two of them, in fact, +welded together to give her length to go about her household work. She +had a freedom of not more than sixteen feet, one end of the chain +welded about her ankle, the other set in a staple driven into a log of +the wall. She had wrapped the links with cloths to save her flesh, but +for all of that protection she walked haltingly, as if the limb were +sore. + +"I never heard of such inhuman treatment!" Mackenzie declared, hot to +the bone in his burning resentment of this barbarity. "How long has he +kept you tied up this way?" + +"Three years now," said she, with a weary sigh. + +"It's going to stop, right here. What did you let him treat you this +way for? Why didn't some of your neighbors take a hand in it?" + +"Nobody comes," she sighed, shaking her head sadly. "The name of Swan +Carlson is a curse on the wind. Nobody passes; we are far from any +road that men travel; your face is the first I have seen since Swan +put the chain on me like a wolf." + +"Where does he keep his tools?" + +"Maybe in the barn--I do not know. Only there never is anything left +in my reach. Will you set me free, kind stranger?" + +"If I can find anything to cut that chain. Let me have the lantern." + +The woman hesitated, her eyes grown great with fright. + +"My man, he is the one who choked two sheepherders with his hands. You +must have read in the paper----" + +"Maybe it was before my time. Give me down the lantern." + +Swan Carlson appeared to be a man who got along with very few tools. +Mackenzie could not find a cold-chisel among the few broken and rusted +odds and ends in the barn, although there was an anvil, such as every +rancher in that country had, fastened to a stump in the yard, a hammer +rusting beside it on the block. As Mackenzie stood considering what +could be done with the material at hand, the woman called to him from +the door, her voice vibrant with anxious excitement: + +"My man will come soon," she said. + +Mackenzie started back to the house, hammer in hand, thinking that he +might break the chain near her foot and give her liberty, at least. A +pile of logs lay in the dooryard, an ax hacked into the end of one. +With this tool added to the hammer, he hurried to the prisoner. + +"I think we can make it now," he said. + +The poor creature was panting as if the hand of her man hung over her +in threat of throttling out her life as he had smothered the +sheepherders in the tragedy that gave him his evil fame. Mackenzie +urged her to a chair, giving her the lantern to hold and, with the +edge of the ax set against a link of her chain, the poll on the floor, +he began hammering the soft metal against the bit. + +Once she put her hand on his shoulder, her breath caught in a sharp +exclamation of alarm. + +"I thought it was Swan's step!" she whispered. "Listen--do you hear?" + +"There's nobody," he assured her, turning his head to listen, the +sweat on his lean cheek glistening in the light. + +"It is my fear that he will come too soon. Strike fast, good young +man, strike fast!" + +If Swan Carlson had been within half a mile he would have split the +wind to find out the cause of such a clanging in his shunned and +proscribed house, and that he did not appear before the chain was +severed was evidence that he was nowhere near at hand. When the cut +links fell to the floor Mrs. Carlson stood the lantern down with +gentle deliberation, as if preparing to enter the chamber of someone +in a desperate sickness to whom had come a blessed respite of sleep. +Then she stood, her lips apart, her breath suspended, lifting her +freed foot with a joyous relief in its lightness. + +Mackenzie remained on his knees at her feet, looking up strangely into +her face. Suddenly she bent over him, clasped his forehead between her +hands, kissed his brow as if he were her son. A great hot tear +splashed down upon his cheek as she rose again, a sob in her throat +that ended in a little, moaning cry. She tossed her long arms like an +eagle set free from a cramping cage, her head thrown back, her +streaming hair far down her shoulders. There was an appealing grace in +her tall, spare body, a strange, awakening beauty in her haggard +face. + +"God sent you," she said. "May He keep His hand over you wherever you +go." + +Mackenzie got to his feet; she picked up the ax and leaned it against +the table close to her hand. + +"I will give you eggs, you can cook them at a fire," she said, "and +bread I will give you, but butter I cannot give. That I have not +tasted since I came to this land, four years ago, a bride." + +She moved about to get the food, walking with awkwardness on the foot +that had dragged the chain so long, laughing a little at her efforts +to regain a normal balance. + +"Soon it will pass away, and I will walk like a lady, as I once knew +how." + +"But I don't want to cook at a fire," Mackenzie protested; "I want you +to make me some coffee and fry me some eggs, and then we'll see about +things." + +She came close to him, her great gray eyes seeming to draw him until +he gazed into her soul. + +"No; you must go," she said. "It will be better when Swan comes that +nobody shall be here but me." + +"But you! Why, you poor thing, he'll put that chain on you again, +knock you down, for all I know, and fasten you up like a beast. I'm +not going; I'll stay right here till he comes." + +"No," shaking her head in sad earnestness, "better it will be for all +that I shall be here alone when he comes." + +"Alone!" said he, impatiently; "what can you do alone?" + +"When he comes," said she, drawing a great breath, shaking her hair +back from her face, her deep grave eyes holding him again in their +earnest appeal, "then I will stand by the door and kill him with the +ax!" + + + + +CHAPTER II + +SWAN CARLSON + + +Mackenzie found it hard to bend the woman from this plan of summary +vengeance. She had suffered and brooded in her loneliness so long, the +cruel hand of Swan Carlson over her, that her thoughts had beaten a +path to this desire. This self-administration of justice seemed now +her life's sole aim. She approached it with glowing eyes and flushed +cheeks; she had lived for that hour. + +Harshly she met Mackenzie's efforts at first to dissuade her from this +long-planned deed, yielding a little at length, not quite promising to +withhold her hand when the step of her savage husband should sound +outside the door. + +"If you are here when he comes, then it will do for another night; if +you are gone, then I will not say." + +That was the compromise she made with him at last, turning with no +more argument to prepare his supper, carrying the ax with her as she +went about the work. Often she stood in rigid concentration, listening +for the sound of Swan's coming, such animation in her eyes as a +bride's might show in a happier hour than hers. She sat opposite her +visitor as he made his supper on the simple food she gave him, and +told him the story of her adventure into that heartless land, the +ax-handle against her knee. + +A minister's daughter, educated to fit herself for a minister's wife. +She had learned English in the schools of her native land, as the +custom is, and could speak it fairly when family reverses carried her +like a far-blown seed to America. She had no business training, for +what should a minister's wife know of business beyond the affairs of +the parish and the economy of her own home? She found, therefore, +nothing open to her hands in America save menial work in the +households of others. + +Not being bred to it, nor the intention or thought of it as a future +contingency, she suffered in humbling herself to the services of +people who were at once her intellectual and social inferiors. The one +advantage in it was the improvement of her English speech, through +which she hoped for better things in time. + +It was while she was still new to America, its customs and social +adjustments, and the shame of her menial situation burned in her soul +like a corrosive acid, that she saw the advertisement of Swan Carlson +in a Swedish newspaper. Swan Carlson was advertising for a wife. +Beneath a handsome picture of himself he stated his desires, frankly, +with evident honesty in all his representations. He told of his +holdings in sheep and land, of his money in the bank. + +A dream of new consequence in this strange land came to Hertha +Jacobsen as she read the advertisement, as she studied the features of +Swan Carlson, his bold face looking at her from the page. She had seen +men, and the women of such men sharing their honors, who had risen +from peasants to governors and senators, to positions of wealth and +consequence in this strange land with all the romance of a tale out of +a book. Perhaps fate had urged her on to this unfriendly shore only +to feed her on the bitter herbs for her purification for a better +life. + +The minister of her church investigated Swan Carlson and his claims, +finding him all that he professed to be. Hertha wrote to him; in time +Swan came to visit her, a tall, long-striding man, handsomer than his +picture in the paper, handsome as a Viking lord with his proud foot on +the neck of a fallen foe. + +So she married him, and came away with him to the sheeplands, and +Swan's hand was as tender of her as a summer wind. It was shearing +time when they reached home; Swan was with her every day for a little +while, gathering his flocks from the range into the shearing sheds. He +was master of more than fifteen thousand sheep. + +When the shearing was done, and Swan had gone with his wagons to ship +the clip, returning with his bankbook showing thousands in added +wealth, a change came into her life, so radiant with the blossoms of a +new happiness. Swan's big laugh was not so ready in his throat any +more; his great hand seemed forgetful of its caress. He told her that +the time of idling now was over; she must go with him in a sheep-wagon +to the range and care for her band of sheep, sharing the labors of his +life as she shared its rewards. + +No; that was not to her liking. The wife of a rich man should not live +as a peasant woman, dew in her draggled skirts to her knees, the sun +browning her skin and bleaching her hair. It was not for his woman to +give him _no_, said Swan. Be ready at a certain hour in the morning; +they must make an early start, for the way was long. + +But no; she refused to take the burden of a peasant woman on her back. +That was the first time Swan knocked her senseless. When she +recovered, the sheep-wagon was rocking her in its uneasy journey to +the distant range. Swan's cruelties multiplied with his impatience at +her slowness to master the shepherd's art. The dogs were sullen +creatures, unused to a woman's voice, unfriendly to a woman's +presence. Swan insisted that she lay aside her woman's attire and +dress as a man to gain the good-will of the dogs. + +Again she defied his authority, all her refinement rising against the +degradation of her sex; again Swan laid her senseless with a blow. +When she woke her limbs were clad in overalls, a greasy jumper was +buttoned over her breast. But the dogs were wiser than their master; +no disguise of man's could cover her from the contempt of their shrewd +senses. They would not obey her shrilled commands. + +Very well, said Swan; if she did not have it in her to win even the +respect of a dog, let her do a dog's work. So he took the collies +away, leaving her to range her band of sheep in terrible labor, +mind-wrenching loneliness, over the sage-gray hills. Wolves grew bold; +the lambs suffered. When Swan came again to number her flock, he +cursed her for her carelessness, giving her blows which were kinder +than his words. + +With the first snow she abandoned her flock and fled. Disgraceful as +it was for a woman to leave her man, the frenzy of loneliness drove +her on. With his companionship she could have endured Swan's cruelty, +but alone her heart was dead. Three days she wandered. Swan found her +after she had fallen in the snow. + +His great laugh woke her, and she was home in this house, the light of +day in her eyes. Swan was sitting beside her, merry in the thought of +how he had cheated her out of her intention to die like an old ewe +among the mountain drifts. + +She was good for nothing, he said, but to sit at home like a cat. But +he would make sure that she sat at home, to be there at his coming, +and not running away from the bounty of a man who had taken a beggar +to his bosom. Then he brought the chain and the anvil, and welded the +red-hot iron upon her limb. He laughed when the smoke of her burning +flesh rose hissing; laughed when he mounted his horse and rode away, +leaving her in agony too great to let her die. + +This summer now beginning was the fourth since that melancholy day. In +the time that had passed, Swan had come into the ways of trouble, +suffering a great drain upon his hoarded money, growing as a +consequence sullen and somber in his moods. No more he laughed; even +the distress of his chained wife, the sight of her wasting face and +body, the pleading of her tortured eyes, could not move his loud gales +of merriment again. + +Swan had killed two of his sheepherders, as she had mentioned before. +It grew out of a dispute over wages, in which the men were right. That +was the winter following her attempt to run away, Swan being alone +with them upon the stormy range. He declared both of them set upon him +at once like wolves, and that he fought only to defend his life. He +strangled them, the throat of each grasped in his broad, thick hand, +and held them from him so, stiff arms against their desperate +struggles, until they sank down in the snow and died. + +Only a little while ago the lawyers had got him off from the charge of +murder, after long delays. The case had been tried in another county, +for Swan Carlson's neighbors all believed him guilty of a horrible +crime; no man among them could have listened to his story under oath +with unprejudiced ear. The lawyers had brought Swan off, for at the +end it had been his living word against the mute accusations of two +dead men. There was nobody to speak for the herders; so the lawyers +had set him free. But it had cost him thousands of dollars, and Swan's +evil humor had deepened with the drain. + +Crazy, he said of his wife; a poor mad thing bent on self-destruction +in wild and mournful ways. In that Swan was believed, at least. Nobody +came to inquire of her, none ever stopped to speak a word. The nearest +neighbor was twelve or fifteen miles distant, a morose man with sour +face, master of a sea of sheep. + +All of this Swan himself had told her in the days when he laughed. He +told her also of the lawyers' drain upon his wealth, starving her days +together to make a pebble of saving to fill the ruthless breach. + +"Tonight Swan will come," she said. "After what I have told you, are +you not afraid?" + +"I suppose I ought to be," Mackenzie returned, leaving her to form her +own conclusion. + +She searched his face with steady eyes, her hand on the ax-helve, in +earnest effort to read his heart. + +"No, you are not afraid," she said. "But wait; when you hear him +speak, then you will be afraid." + +"How do you know he is coming home tonight?" + +She did not speak at once. Her eyes were fixed on the open door at +Mackenzie's side, her face was set in the tensity of her mental +concentration as she listened. Mackenzie bent all his faculties to +hear if any foot approached. There was no sound. + +"The fishermen of my country can feel the chill of an iceberg through +the fog and the night," she said at last. "Swan Carlson is an iceberg +to my heart." + +She listened again, bending forward, her lips open. Mackenzie fancied +he heard the swing of a galloping hoof-beat, and turned toward the +door. + +"Have you a pistol?" she inquired. + +"No." + +"He is coming; in a little while he will be at the door. There is time +yet for you to leave." + +"I want to have a word with your man; I'll wait." + +Mrs. Carlson got up, keeping the ax in hand, moved her chair to the +other side of the door, where she stationed herself in such position +as Swan must see her first when he looked within. She disposed the ax +to conceal it entirely beneath her long apron, her hand under the +garment grasping the helve. + +"For your own sake, not his, I ask you not to strike him," Mackenzie +pleaded, in all the earnestness he could command. + +"I have given you the hour of my vengeance," she replied. "But if he +curses me, if he lifts his hand!" + +Mackenzie was more than a little uneasy on the probable outcome of +his meeting with the tempestuous Swan. He got out his pipe and lit it, +considering the situation with fast-running thoughts. Still, a man +could not go on and leave that beaten, enslaved woman to the mercies +of her tyrant; Swan Carlson must be given to understand that he would +be held to answer to the law for his future behavior toward her. + +"If I were you I'd put the ax behind the door and get his supper +ready," said he. + +Mrs. Carlson got up at the suggestion, with such readiness that +surprised Mackenzie, put the ax back of the open door, stood a moment +winding up her fallen hair. + +"Yes, he is my man," she said. + +Swan was turning his horse into the barn; Mackenzie could hear him +talking to the animal, not unkindly. Mrs. Carlson put fresh fuel in +the stove, making a rattling of the lids which must have sounded +cheerful to the ears of a hungry man. As she began breaking eggs into +a bowl she took up her song again, with an unconscious air of +detachment from it, as one unwittingly follows the habit that has been +for years the accompaniment to a task. + +As before, the refinement of accent was wanting in her words, but the +sweet melancholy of her voice thrilled her listener like the rich +notes of an ancient violin. + + _Na-a-fer a-lo-o-one, na-a-fer a-lone, + He promise na-fer to leafe me, + Na-fer to leafe me a-lone!_ + +Mackenzie sat with his elbow on the table, his chair partly turned +toward the door, just within the threshold and a little to one side, +where the flockmaster would see him the moment he stepped into the +light. The traveler's pack lay on the floor at the door jamb; the +smoke from his pipe drifted out to tell of his presence in the honest +announcement of a man who had nothing to hide. + +So Swan Carlson found him as he came home to his door. + +Swan stopped, one foot in the door, the light on his face. Mrs. +Carlson did not turn from the stove to greet him by word or look, but +stood bending a little over the pan of sputtering eggs, which she +shook gently from side to side with a rhythmic, slow movement in +cadence with her song. Swan turned his eyes from one to the other, his +face clouding for a moment as for a burst of storm, clearing again at +once as Mackenzie rose and gave him good evening in cheerful and +unshaken voice. + +Mrs. Carlson had spoken a true word when she described Swan as a +handsome man. Almost seven feet tall, Mackenzie took him to be, so +tall that he must stoop to enter the door; lithe and sinewy of limbs, +a lightness in them as of an athlete bred; broad in the shoulders, +long of arms. His face was stern, his red hair long about the ears, +his Viking mustache long-drooping at the corners of his mouth. + +"I thought a man was here, or my woman had begun to smoke," said Swan, +coming in, flinging his hat down on the floor. "What do you want, +loafin' around here?" + +Mackenzie explained his business in that country in direct words, and +his presence in the house in the same breath. Mollified, Swan grunted +that he understood and accepted the explanation, turning up his +sleeves, unfastening the collar of his flannel shirt, to wash. His +woman stood at the stove, her song dead on her lips, sliding the eggs +from the pan onto a platter in one piece. Swan gave her no heed, not +even a curious or questioning look, but as he crossed the room to the +wash bench he saw the broken chain lying free upon the floor. + +A breath he paused over it, his eyes fastened on it in a glowering +stare. Mackenzie braced himself for the storm of wrath which seemed +bursting the doors of Swan Carlson's gloomy heart. But Swan did not +speak. He picked up the chain, examined the cut link, threw it down +with a clatter. At the sound of its fall Mackenzie saw Mrs. Carlson +start. She turned her head, terror in her eyes, her face blanched. +Swan bent over the basin, snorting water like a strangling horse. + +There were eight eggs on the platter that Swan Carlson's woman put +before him when he sat down to his supper. One end of the great +trencher was heaped with brown bacon; a stack of bread stood at Swan's +left hand, a cup of coffee at his right. Before this provender the +flockmaster squared himself, the unwelcome guest across the table from +him, the smoke of his pipe drifting languidly out into the tranquil +summer night. + +Swan had said no word since his first inquiry. Mackenzie had ventured +nothing more. Mrs. Carlson sat down in the chair that she had placed +near the door before Swan's arrival, only that she moved it a little +to bring her hand within reach of the hidden ax. + +Swan had brushed his long, dark-red hair back from his broad, deep +forehead, bringing it down across the tips of his ears in a savage +fashion admirably suited to his grave, harsh, handsome face. He +devoured his food noisily, bending low over his plate. + +"You want to learn the sheep business, huh?" said he, throwing up his +eyes in quick challenge, pausing a moment in his champing and clatter. +Mackenzie nodded, pipe raised toward his lips. "Well, you come to the +right country. You ever had any work around a ranch?" + +"No." + +"No, I didn't think you had; you look too soft. How much can you +lift?" + +"What's that got to do with sheep?" Mackenzie inquired, frowning in +his habitual manner of showing displeasure with frivolous and trifling +things. + +"I can shoulder a steel rail off of the railroad that weighs seven +hundred and fifty pounds," said Swan. "You couldn't lift one end." + +"Maybe I couldn't," Mackenzie allowed, pretending to gaze out after +his drifting smoke, but watching the sheepman, as he mopped the last +of the eggs up with a piece of bread, with a furtive turning of his +eye. He was considering how to approach the matter which he had +remained there to take up with this great, boasting, savage man, and +how he could make him understand that it was any of society's business +whether he chained his wife or let her go free, fed her or starved +her, caressed her, or knocked her down. + +Swan pushed back from the table, wringing the coffee from his +mustache. + +"Did you cut that chain?" he asked. + +"Yes, I cut it. You've got no right to keep your wife, or anybody +else, chained up. You could be put in jail for it; it's against the +law." + +"A man's got a right to do what he pleases with his own woman; she's +his property, the same as a horse." + +"Not exactly the same as a horse, either. But you could be put in jail +for beating your horse. I've waited here to tell you about this, in a +friendly way, and warn you to treat this woman right. Maybe you didn't +know you were breaking the law, but I'm telling you it's so." + +Swan stood, his head within six inches of the ceiling. His wife must +have read an intention of violence in his face, although Mackenzie +could mark no change in his features, always as immobile as bronze. +She sprang to her feet, her bosom agitated, arms lifted, shoulders +raised, as if to shrink from the force of a blow. She made no effort +to reach the ax behind the door; the thought of it had gone, +apparently, out of her mind. + +Swan stood within four feet of her, but he gave her no attention. + +"When a man comes to my house and monkeys with my woman, him and me +we've got to have a fight," he said. + + + + +CHAPTER III + +THE FIGHT + + +Mackenzie got up, keeping the table between them. He looked at the +door, calculating whether he could make a spring for the ax before +Carlson could grapple him. Carlson read in the glance an intention to +retreat, made a quick stride to the door, closed it sharply, locked +it, put the key in his pocket. He stood a moment looking Mackenzie +over, as if surprised by the length he unfolded when on his feet, but +with no change of anger or resentment in his stony face. + +"You didn't need to lock the door, Carlson; I wasn't going to run +away--I didn't wait here to see you for that." + +Mackenzie stood in careless, lounging pose, hand on the back of his +chair, pipe between his fingers, a rather humorous look in his eyes as +he measured Carlson up and down. + +"Come out here in the middle and fight me if you ain't afraid!" Swan +challenged, derision in his voice. + +"I'll fight you, all right, after I tell you what I waited here to +say. You're a coward, Swan Carlson, you're a sheepman with a sheep's +heart. I turned your woman loose, and you're going to let her stay +loose. Let that sink into your head." + +Carlson was standing a few feet in front of Mackenzie, leaning +forward, his shoulders swelling and falling as if he flexed his +muscles for a spring. His arms he held swinging in front of him full +length, like a runner waiting for the start, in a posture at once +unpromising and uncouth. Behind him his wife shuddered against the +wall. + +"Swan, Swan! O-o-oh, Swan, Swan!" she said, crying it softly as if she +chided him for a great hurt. + +Swan turned partly toward her, striking backward with his open hand. +His great knuckles struck her across the eyes, a cruel, heavy blow +that would have felled a man. She staggered back a pace, then sank +limply forward on her knees, her hands outreaching on the floor, her +hair falling wildly, her posture that of a suppliant at a barbarian +conqueror's feet. + +Mackenzie snatched the heavy platter from the table and brought +Carlson a smashing blow across the head. Carlson stood weaving on his +legs a moment as the fragments of the dish clattered around him, +swaying like a tree that waits the last blow of the ax to determine +which way it will fall. Mackenzie threw the fragment that remained in +his hand into Carlson's face, laying open a long gash in his cheek. As +the hot blood gushed down over his jaw Carlson steadied himself on his +swaying legs and laughed. + +Mrs. Carlson lifted her face out of the shadows of the floor at the +sound. Mackenzie glanced at her, the red mark of Swan's harsh blow +across her brows, as he flew at Swan like a desert whirlwind, landing +heavily on his great neck before he could lift a guard. The blow +staggered Carlson over upon his wife, and together they collapsed +against the wall, where Carlson stood a breath, his hand thrown out to +save him from a fall. Then he shook his haughty, handsome, barbarian +head, and laughed again, a loud laugh, deep and strong. + +There was no note of merriment in that sound, no inflection of +satisfaction or joy. It came out of his wide-extended jaws with a +roar, no facial softening with it, no blending of the features in the +transformation of a smile. Mrs. Carlson struggled to her knees at the +sound of it, lifting her moaning cry again at the sight of his gushing +blood. Swan charged his adversary with bent head, the floor trembling +under his heavy feet, his great hands lifted to seize and crush. + +Mackenzie backed away, upsetting the table between them, barring for a +moment Swan's mad onrush. In the anger-blind movements of the man he +could read his intention, which was not to strike foot to foot, knee +to knee, but to grapple and smother, as he had smothered the +sheepherders in the snow. Across the overturned table Mackenzie landed +another blow, sprang around the barrier out of the pocket of corner +into which Carlson was bent on forcing him, hoping by nimble foot work +to play on the flockmaster for a knockout. + +Swan threw a chair as Mackenzie circled out of his reach with nimble +feet, knocking down the stovepipe, dislodging a shower of tinware from +the shelves behind. Carlson had him by the shoulder now, but a deft +turn, a sharp blow, and Mackenzie was free, racing over the cluttered +floor in wild uproar, bending, side-stepping, in a strained and +terrific race. Carlson picked up the table, swung it overhead until it +struck the ceiling, threw it with all his mighty strength to crush the +man who had evaded him with such clever speed. A leg caught Mackenzie +a glancing blow on the head, dazing him momentarily, giving Carlson +the opening he desired. + +In the next breath Mackenzie was down, Carlson's hand at his throat. +Mackenzie could see Swan's face as he bent over him, the lantern light +on it fairly. There was no light of exultation in it as his great hand +closed slowly upon Mackenzie's throat, no change from its stony +harshness save for the dark gash and the flood of blood that ran down +his jaw and neck. + +Mackenzie writhed and struggled, groping on the floor for something to +strike Carlson with and break his garroting grip. The blood was +singing in his ears, the breath was cut from his lungs; his eyes +flashed a thousand scintillating sparks and grew dark. His hand struck +something in the debris on the floor, the handle of a table knife it +seemed, and with the contact a desperate accession of life heaved in +him like a final wave. He struck, and struck at Swan Carlson's arm, +and struck again at his wrist as he felt the tightening band of his +fingers relax, heard him curse and growl. A quick turn and he was +free, with a glimpse as he rolled over at Swan Carlson pulling a table +fork out of his hairy wrist. + +Mackenzie felt blood in his mouth; his ears were muffled as if he were +under water, but he came to his feet with a leg of the broken table in +his hand. Swan threw the fork at him as he rose from his knees; it +struck the lantern, breaking the globe, cutting off more than half the +dim light in which the undetermined battle had begun. + +Over against the door Mrs. Carlson stood with the ax in her hands, +holding it uplifted, partly drawn back, as if she had checked it in an +intended blow. Swan tore a broad plank from the table top, split it +over his knee to make it better fit his hand, and came on to the +attack, bending in his slouching, bearish attitude of defiant +strength. Mackenzie gave way before him, watching his moment to strike +the decisive blow. + +This maneuver brought Mackenzie near the door, where the wild-eyed +woman stood, an ally and a reserve, ready to help him in the moment of +his extremity. He believed she had been on the point of striking Swan +the moment his fingers closed in their convulsive pang of death over +the handle of the fork. + +Swan followed, warily now, conscious of this man's unexpected strength +and agility, and of his resources in a moment of desperation, making +feints with his board as a batter does before the ball is thrown. +Mackenzie passed Mrs. Carlson, backing away from Swan, sparring for +time to recover his wind and faculties after his swift excursion to +the borderland of death. He parried a swift blow, giving one in return +that caught Swan on the elbow and knocked the plank out of his hand. +Mackenzie sprang forward to follow up his advantage with a decisive +stroke, when, to his amazement, Mrs. Carlson threw herself between +them, the ax uplifted in her husband's defense. + +"No, no!" she screamed; "he is my man!" + +Swan Carlson laughed again, and patted her shoulder, stooping to +recover his board. But he flung it down again, taking the ax in its +place, pushing his woman, not without some tenderness in his hand, +back into the corner, throwing himself in front of her, his wild +laugh ringing in the murky room, stifling from the smoke of lantern +and stove. + +Mackenzie felt his hope break like a rope of straw at this unexpected +turn of the woman. With those two mad creatures--for mad he believed +the isolation and cruelty suffered by the one, the trouble and terror +of the law by the other, had driven them--leagued against him it +seemed that he must put down all hope of ever looking again upon the +day. + +If there was any chance for him at all, it lay in darkness. With this +thought Mackenzie made a quick dash past Carlson, smashing the lantern +with a blow. + +There was one window in the room, a small, single-sash opening near +the stove. Even this was not apparent for a little while following the +plunge into the dark; Mackenzie stood still, waiting for his eyes to +adjust themselves to the gloom. No sound but Carlson's breathing came +from the other side of the kitchen. The square of window appeared +dimly now, a little to Mackenzie's left. He moved cautiously away from +it, yet not without noise for all his care. Swan let drive with his +board at the sound of movement. His aim was good; it struck +Mackenzie's shoulder, but fortunately with its flat surface, doing no +hurt. + +Mackenzie threw himself down heavily, getting cautiously to his feet +again instantly, hoping to draw Carlson over in the belief that he had +put him out of the fight. But Carlson was not so rash. He struck a +match, holding it up, peering under it, blinking in the sudden light. + +Mackenzie was not more than eight feet away. He closed the distance in +a bound, swung the heavy oak table leg, and stretched Carlson on the +floor. Mrs. Carlson began wailing and moaning, bending over her fallen +tyrant, as Mackenzie could gather from her voice. + +"You've killed him," she said; "you've killed my man!" + +"No, but I will kill him if you don't open the door!" + +Mackenzie stood by Carlson as he spoke, feeling his body with his +foot. He bent over Carlson, exploring for his heart, fearing that he +had killed him, indeed. His first efforts to locate a pulse were not +assuring, but a feeble throbbing at last announced that the great +ruffian's admirable machinery was stunned, not broken. + +"Open the door; he'll be all right in a little while," Mackenzie +said. + +Mrs. Carlson was moaning in a sorrow as genuine as if the fallen man +had been the kindest husband that fate could have sent her, and not +the heartless beast that he was. She found the key and threw the door +open, letting in a cool, sweet breath of the night. Under it Carlson +would soon revive, Mackenzie believed. He had no desire to linger and +witness the restoration. + +Mackenzie had a bruised and heavy feeling about him as he shouldered +his pack and hurried from that inhospitable door. He knew that Swan +Carlson was not dead, and would not die from that blow. Why the +feeling persisted as he struck off up the creek through the dew-wet +grass he could not tell, but it was strong upon him that Swan Carlson +would come into his way again, to make trouble for him on a future +day. + + + + +CHAPTER IV + +KEEPER OF THE FLOCK + + +John Mackenzie, late schoolmaster of Jasper, marched on through the +cool of the night, regretting that he had meddled in the domestic +arrangements of Swan Carlson, the Swede. The outcome of his attempted +kindness to the oppressed woman had not been felicitous. Indeed, he +was troubled greatly by the fear that he had killed Swan Carlson, and +that grave consequences might rise out of this first adventure that +ever fell in his way. + +Perhaps adventure was not such a thing to be sought as he had +imagined, he reflected; hand to his swollen throat. There was an ache +in his crushed windpipe, a dryness in his mouth, a taste of blood on +his tongue. That had been a close go for him, there on the floor under +Swan Carlson's great knee; a few seconds longer, and his first +adventure would have been his last. + +Yet there was a vast satisfaction in knowing what was in him. Here he +had stood foot to foot with the strong man of the sheeplands, the +strangler, the fierce, half-insane terror of peaceful men, and had +come off the victor. He had fought this man in his own house, where a +man will fight valiantly, even though a coward on the road, and had +left him senseless on the floor. It was something for a schoolteacher, +counted a mild and childlike man. + +It had been many a year since Mackenzie had mixed in a fight, and the +best that had gone before was nothing more than a harmless spat +compared to this. The marvel of it was how he had developed this +quality of defense in inactivity. There must have been some +psychological undercurrent carrying strength and skill to him through +all the years of his romantic imaginings; the spirits of old heroes of +that land must have lent him their counsel and might in that desperate +battle with the Norse flockmaster. + +Adventure was not dead out of the land, it seemed, although this was a +rather sordid and ignoble brand. It had descended to base levels among +base men who lived with sheep and thought only of sheep-riches. +Violence among such men as Swan Carlson was merely violence, with none +of the picturesque embellishments of the olden days when men slung +pistols with a challenge and a hail, in those swift battles where +skill was all, bestial strength nothing. + +Mackenzie hoped to find Tim Sullivan different from the general run of +sheep-rich men. There must be some of the spice of romance in a man +who had the wide reputation of Tim Sullivan, and who was the hero of +so many tales of success. + +It was Mackenzie's hope that this encounter with the wild sheepman +might turn out to his profit with Tim Sullivan. He always had believed +that he should win fortune fighting if it ever fell to his portion at +all. This brush with Swan Carlson confirmed his old belief. If there +was any good luck for him in the sheep country, it would come to him +through a fight, + +Mackenzie considered these things as he marched on away from Swan +Carlson's homestead, thinking the safe plan would be to put several +miles between himself and that place before lying down to rest. At +dawn Swan would be out after him with a gun, more than likely. +Mackenzie had nothing of the sort in his slender equipment. Imagine a +man going into the sheep country carrying a gun! The gun days of the +West were done; he had seen only one cowboy wearing one in his four +years at Jasper. + +Past midnight Mackenzie came to a little valley where somebody had +been cutting hay. The late-risen moon discovered the little mounds of +hay thick around him, the aroma of the curing herbage was blowing to +him an invitation to stop and sleep. Let Swan Carlson come when he +might, that was the place prepared for the traveler's repose. + +Romance or no romance, riches or poverty, he was through with a +woman's work, he told himself. Once there had been ideals ahead of him +in educational work, but the contempt of men had dispelled them. If he +could not find his beginning in the sheep country, he would turn +elsewhere. A man who had it in him to fight giants wasn't cut out for +teaching school. + +Mackenzie sat with his back to a haycock thinking in this vein. The +sound of running water was near; he went to the creek and bathed his +throat, easing its burning with a deep swig. Back again to the hay, +still building new victories, and nobler ones, on the foundation of +this triumph over Swan Carlson, the red giant who choked men to death +in the snow. + +Morning discovered no habitation in reach of the eye. That little +field of mown hay stood alone among the gray hills, unfenced, +unfended, secure in its isolation, a little patch of something in the +wilderness that looked like home. Mackenzie must have put many miles +behind him since leaving Carlson's door. Looking back, he could follow +the course of the creek where it snaked through the hills, dark green +of willow and cottonwood fresh among the hemming slopes of sage, but +no trace of Carlson's trees could he see. + +Mackenzie had no flour to mix a wad of dough, and but a heel of a +bacon side to furnish a breakfast. It was so unpromising in his +present hungry state that he determined to tramp on a few miles in the +hope of lifting Tim Sullivan's ranch-house on the prominent hilltop +where, he had been told, it stood. + +Two or three miles beyond the hay-field Mackenzie came suddenly upon a +sheep-camp. The wagon stood on a green hillside, a pleasant valley +below it where the grass was abundant and sweet. The camp evidently +had been stationed in that place but a little while, for a large band +of sheep grazed just below it, no bedding-ground being worn bare in +the unusual verdure. Altogether, it was the greenest and most +promising place Mackenzie had met in his journey, gladdening at once +to the imagination and the eye. + +The shepherd sat on the hillside, his dogs beside him, a little smoke +ascending straight in the calm, early sunshine from his dying fire. +The collies scented the stranger while he stood on the hilltop, +several hundred yards above the camp, rising to question his presence +bristling backs. The shepherd rose to inquire into the alarm, +springing up with amazing agility, such sudden and wild concern in his +manner as provoked the traveler's smile. + +Mackenzie saw that he was a boy of fifteen or thereabout, dressed in +overalls much too large for him, the bottoms turned up almost to his +knees. Hot as the morning was beginning, the lad had on a duck coat +with sheepskin collar, but in the excitement of beholding a visitor +approaching his camp so early in the day, he took off his hat, +standing so a moment. Then he cut out a streak for the wagon, a few +rods distant, throwing back a half-frightened look as he disappeared +around its side. + +This was a very commodious wagon, familiar to Mackenzie from having +seen many like it drawn up for repairs at the blacksmith shops in +Jasper. Its heavy canvas top was stretched tightly over bows, made to +withstand wind and rough weather, a stovepipe projecting through it, +fended about with a broad tin, and a canvas door, with a little window +in it, a commodious step letting down to the ground. Its tongue was +cut short, to admit coupling it close behind the camp-mover's wagon, +and it was a snug and comfortable home on wheels. + +The dogs came slowly to meet Mackenzie as he approached, backs still +bristling, countenances unpromising. The boy had disappeared into the +wagon; Mackenzie wondered if he had gone to fetch his gun. + +But no. Instead of a gun, came a girl, neither timidity nor fear in +her bearing, and close behind her came the boy, hat still in his hand, +his long, straight hair down about his ears. Mackenzie had stopped a +hundred yards or so distant, not confident of a friendly reception +from the dogs. The girl waved her hand in invitation for him to come +on, and stood waiting at the wagon end. + +She was as neatly dressed as the lad beside her was uncouth in his +man-size overalls, her short corduroy skirt belted about with a broad +leather clasped with a gleaming silver buckle, the tops of her tall +laced boots lost beneath its hem. Her gray flannel waist was laced at +the bosom like a cowboy's shirt, adorned at the collar with a flaming +scarlet necktie done in a bow as broad as a band. Her brown sombrero +was tilted, perhaps unintentionally, a little to one side of her +rather pert and independently carried head. + +At a word from her the dogs left the way unopposed, and as greetings +passed between the sheepgirl and the stranger the wise creatures stood +beside her, eyeing the visitor over with suspicious mien. Mackenzie +told his name and his business, making inquiry in the same breath for +Tim Sullivan's ranch. + +"Do you know Mr. Sullivan?" she asked. And as she lifted her eyes +Mackenzie saw that they were as blue as asters on an October morning, +and that her hair was a warm reddish-brown, and that her face was +refreshingly pure in its outline, strong and haughty and brown, and +subtly sweet as the elusive perfume of a wild rose of the hills. + +"No, I don't know Mr. Sullivan; I've never even seen him. I've heard a +lot about him down at Jasper--I was the schoolteacher there." + +"Oh, you're up here on your vacation?" said she, a light of quick +interest in her eyes, an unmistakable friendliness in her voice. It +was as if he had presented a letter from somebody well and favorably +known. + +"No, I've come up here to see about learning the sheep business." + +"Sheep business?" said she, looking at him with surprised eyes. "Sheep +business?" this time with a shading of disgust. "Well, if I had sense +enough to teach school I'd never want to see another sheep!" + +Mackenzie smiled at her impetuous outburst in which she revealed in a +word the discontent of her heart. + +"Of course you know Mr. Sullivan?" + +"He's my father," she returned. "This is my brother Charley; there are +eight more of us at home." + +Charley grinned, his shyness still over him, but his alarm quieted, +and gave Mackenzie his hand. + +"The ranch is about thirteen or fifteen miles on up the creek from +here," she said, "You haven't had your breakfast, have you?" + +"No; I just about finished my grub yesterday." + +"I didn't see any grease around your gills," said the girl, in quite a +matter-of-fact way, no flippancy in her manner. "Charley, stir up the +fire, will you? I can't offer you much, Mr. Mackenzie, but you're +welcome to what there is. How about a can of beans?" + +"You've hit me right where I live, Miss Sullivan." + +The collies came warily up, stiff-legged, with backs still ruffled, +and sniffed Mackenzie over. They seemed to find him harmless, turning +from him presently to go and lie beside Charley, their faces toward +the flock, alert ears lifted, white breasts gleaming in the sun like +the linen of fastidious gentlemen. + +"Do you want me to get any water, Joan?" Charley inquired. + +Joan answered from inside the wagon that no water was needed, there +was coffee enough in the pot. She handed the smoke-blackened vessel +out to Mackenzie as she spoke, telling him to go and put it on the +fire. + +Joan turned the beans into the pan after cooking the bacon, and sent +Charley to the wagon for a loaf of bread. + +"We don't have to bake bread in this camp, that's one blessing," she +said. "Mother keeps us supplied. Some of these sheepherders never +taste anything but their cold-water biscuits for years at a time." + +"It must get kind of tiresome," Mackenzie reflected, thinking of his +own efforts at bread-making on the road. + +"It's too heavy to carry around in the craw," said Joan. + +Charley watched Mackenzie curiously as he ate, whispering once to his +sister, who flushed, turned her eyes a moment on her visitor, and then +seemed to rebuke the lad for passing confidences in such impolite way. +Mackenzie guessed that his discolored neck and bruised face had been +the subject of the boy's conjectures, but he did not feel pride enough +in his late encounter to speak of it even in explanation. Charley +opened the way to it at last when Joan took the breakfast things back +to the wagon. + +"Have you been in a fight?" the boy inquired. + +"Not much of a one," Mackenzie told him, rather wishing that the +particulars might be reserved. + +"Your neck's black like somebody'd been chokin' you, and your face is +bunged up some, too. Who done it?" + +"Do you know Swan Carlson?" Mackenzie inquired, turning slowly to the +boy. + +"Swan Carlson?" Charley's face grew pale at the name; his eyes started +in round amazement. "You couldn't never 'a' got away from Swan; he +choked two fellers to death, one in each hand. No man in this country +could whip one side of Swan." + +"Well, I got away from him, anyhow," said Mackenzie, in a manner that +even the boy understood to be the end of the discussion. + +But Charley was not going to have it so. He jumped up and ran to meet +Joan as she came from the wagon. + +"Mr. Mackenzie had a fight with Swan Carlson--that's what's the matter +with his neck!" he said. There was unbounded admiration in the boy's +voice, and exultation as if the distinction were his own. Here before +his eyes was a man who had come to grips with Swan Carlson, and had +escaped from his strangling hands to eat his breakfast with as much +unconcern as if he had no more than been kicked by a mule. + +Joan came on a little quicker, excitement reflected in her lively +eyes. Mackenzie was filling his pipe, which had gone through the +fight in his pocket in miraculous safety--for which he was duly +grateful--ashamed of his bruises, now that the talk of them had +brought them to Joan's notice again. + +"I hope you killed him," she said, coming near, looking down on +Mackenzie with full commendation; "he keeps his crazy wife chained up +like a dog!" + +"I don't think he's dead, but I'd like to know for sure," Mackenzie +returned, his eyes bent thoughtfully on the ground. + +"Nobody will ever say a word to you if you did kill him," Joan +assured. "They'd all know he started it--he fusses with everybody." + +She sat on the ground near him, Charley posting himself a little in +front, where he could admire and wonder over the might of a man who +could break Swan Carlson's hold upon his throat and leave his house +alive. Before them the long valley widened as it reached away, the +sheep a dusty brown splotch in it, spread at their grazing, the sound +of the lambs' wailing rising clear in the pastoral silence. + +"I stopped at Carlson's house after dark last night," Mackenzie +explained, seeing that such explanation must be made, "and turned his +wife loose. Carlson resented it when he came home. He said I'd have to +fight him. But you're wrong when you believe what Carlson says about +that woman; she isn't crazy, and never was." + +That seemed to be all the story, from the way he hastened it, and +turned away from the vital point of interest. Joan touched his arm as +he sat smoking, his speculative gaze on the sheep, his brows drawn as +if in troubled thought. + +"What did you do when he said you had to fight him?" she inquired, her +breath coming fast, her cheeks glowing. + +Mackenzie laughed shortly. "Why, I tried to get away," he said. + +"Why didn't you, before he got his hands on you?" Charley wanted to +know. + +"Charley!" said Joan. + +"Carlson locked the door before I could get out." Mackenzie nodded to +the boy, very gravely, as one man to another. Charley laughed. + +"You didn't tear up no boards off the floor tryin' to git away!" said +he. + +Joan smiled; that seemed to express her opinion of it, also. She +admired the schoolmaster's modest reluctance when he gave them a bare +outline of what followed, shuddering when he laughed over Mrs. +Carlson's defense of her husband with the ax. + +"Gee!" said Charley, "I hope dad'll give you a job." + +"But how did you get out of there?" Joan asked. + +"I took an unfair advantage of Swan and hit him with a table leg." + +"Gee! dad's _got_ to give you a job," said Charley; "I'll make him." + +"I'll hold you to that, Charley," Mackenzie laughed. + +In the boy's eyes Mackenzie was already a hero, greater than any man +that had come into the sheeplands in his day. Sheep people are not +fighting folks. They never have been since the world's beginning; they +never will be to the world's end. There is something in the peaceful +business of attending sheep, some appeal in their meekness and +passivity, that seems to tincture and curb the savage spirit that +dwells in the breast of man. Swan Carlson was one of the notorious +exceptions in that country. Even the cattlemen were afraid of him. + +Joan advised against Mackenzie's expressed intention of returning to +Carlson's house to find out how badly he was hurt. It would be a +blessing to the country, she said, if it should turn out that Carlson +was killed. But Mackenzie had an uneasy feeling that it would be a +blessing he could not share. He was troubled over the thing, now that +the excitement of the fight had cooled out of him, thinking of the +blow he had given Carlson with that heavy piece of oak. + +Perhaps the fellow was not dead, but hurt so badly that he would die +without surgical aid. It was the part of duty and humanity to go back +and see. He resolved to do this, keeping the resolution to himself. + +Joan told him much of the sheep business, and much about the art of +running a big band over that sparse range, in which this green valley +lay like an oasis, a gladdening sight seldom to be met with among +those sulky hills. She said she hoped her father would find a place +for him, for the summer, at least. + +"But I wouldn't like to see you shut yourself up in this country like +the rest of us are," she said, gazing off over the hills with wistful +eyes. "A man that knows enough to teach school oughtn't fool away his +time on sheep." + +She was working toward her own emancipation, she told him, running +that band of two thousand sheep on shares for her father, just the +same as an ordinary herdsman. In three years she hoped her increase, +and share of the clip, would be worth ten thousand dollars, and then +she would sell out and go away. + +"What would you want to leave a good business like this for?" he +asked, rather astonished at her cool calculation upon what she +believed to be freedom. "There's nothing out in what people call the +world that you could turn your hand to that would make you a third of +the money." + +"I want to go away and get some education," she said. + +"But you are educated, Miss Sullivan." + +She turned a slow, reproachful look upon him, a shadow of sadness over +her wholesome young face. + +"I'm nearly nineteen; I don't know as much as a girl of twelve," she +said. + +"I've never met any of those precocious twelve-year-olds," he told +her, shaking his head gravely. "You know a great deal more than you're +conscious of, I think, Miss Sullivan. We don't get the best of it out +of books." + +"I'm a prisoner here," she said, stretching her arms as if she +displayed her bonds, "as much of a prisoner in my way as Swan +Carlson's wife was in hers. You cut her chain; nobody ever has come to +cut mine." + +"Your knight will come riding over the hill some evening. One comes +into every woman's life, sooner or later, I think." + +"Mostly in imagination," said Joan. And her way of saying it, so wise +and superior, as if she spoke of some toy which she had outgrown, +brought a smile again to her visitor's grave face. + +Charley was not interested in his sister's bondage, or in the coming +of a champion to set her free. He went off to send the dogs after an +adventurous bunch of sheep that was straying from the main flock. Joan +sighed as she looked after him, putting a strand of hair away behind +her ear. Presently she brightened, turning to Mackenzie with +quickening eyes. + +"I'll make a bargain with you, Mr. Mackenzie, if you're in earnest +about learning the sheep business," she said. + +"All right; let's hear it." + +"Dad's coming over here today to finish cutting hay. I'll make a deal +with him for you to get a band of sheep to run on shares if you'll +agree to teach me enough to get into college--if I've got brains +enough to learn." + +"The doubt would be on the side of the teacher, not the pupil, Miss +Sullivan. Maybe your father wouldn't like the arrangement, anyway." + +"He'll like it, all right. What do you say?" + +"I don't think it would be very much to my advantage to take charge of +a band of sheep under conditions that might look as if I needed +somebody to plug for me. Your father might think of me as an +incompetent and good-for-nothing person." + +"You're afraid I haven't got it in me to learn--you don't want to +waste time on me!" Joan spoke with a sad bitterness, as one who saw +another illusion fading before her eyes. + +"Not that," he hastened to assure her, putting out his hand as if to +add the comfort of his touch to the salve of his words. "I'm only +afraid your father wouldn't have anything to do with me if you were to +approach him with any such proposal. From what I've heard of him he's +a man who likes a fellow to do his own talking." + +"I don't think he'd refuse me." + +"It's hard for a stranger to do that. Your father----" + + * * * * * + +"You'll not do it, you mean?" + +"I think I'd rather get a job from your father on my own face than on +any kind of an arrangement or condition, Miss Sullivan. But I pass you +my word that you'll be welcome to anything and all I'm able to teach +you if I become a pupil in the sheep business on this range. Provided, +of course, that I'm in reaching distance." + +"Will you?" Joan asked, hope clearing the shadows from her face +again. + +"But we might be too far apart for lessons very often," he suggested. + +"Not more than ten or twelve miles. I could ride that every day." + +"It's a bargain then, if I get on," said he. + +"It's a bargain," nodded Joan, giving him her hand to bind it, with +great earnestness in her eyes. + + + + +CHAPTER V + +TIM SULLIVAN + + +"Yes, they call us flockmasters in the reports of the Wool Growers' +Association, and in the papers and magazines, but we're nothing but +sheepmen, and that's all you can make out of us." + +Tim Sullivan spoke without humor when he made this correction in the +name of his calling, sitting with his back to a haycock, eating his +dinner in the sun. Mackenzie accepted the correction with a nod of +understanding, sparing his words. + +"So you want to be a flockmaster?" said Tim. "Well, there's worse +callin's a man, especially a young man, could take up. What put it in +your head to tramp off up here to see me? Couldn't some of them +sheepmen down at Jasper use you?" + +"I wanted to get into the heart of the sheep country for one thing, +and several of my friends recommended you as the best sheepman on the +range, for another. I want to learn under a master, if I learn at +all." + +"Right," Tim nodded, "right and sound. Do you think you've got the +stuff in you to make a sheepman out of?" + +"It will have to be a pretty hard school if I can't stick it +through." + +"Summers are all right," said Tim, reflectively, nodding away at the +distant hills, "and falls are all right, but you take it winter and +early spring, and it tries the mettle in a man. Blizzards and +starvation, and losses through pile-ups and stampedes, wolves and what +not, make a man think sometimes he'll never go through it any more. +Then spring comes, with the cold wind, and slush up to your ankles, +and you out day and night lookin' after the ewes and lambs. Lambin' +time is the hard time, and it's the time when a man makes it or loses, +accordin' to what's in him to face hardship and work." + +"I've heard about it; I know what I'm asking to go up against, Mr. +Sullivan." + +"You want to buy in, or take a band on shares?" + +"I'd rather take a band on shares. If I put what little money I've got +into it I'll go it alone." + +"That's right; it's safer to let the other man take the risk. It ain't +fair to us sheepmen, but we have to do it to get men. Well, when we +hit on a good man, it pays better than hirin' poor ones at fifty +dollars a month and found. I've had old snoozers workin' for me that +the coyotes eat the boots off of while they was asleep. You look kind +of slim and light to tackle a job on the range." + +Mackenzie made no defense of his weight, advancing no further argument +in behalf of his petition for a job. Sullivan measured him over with +his appraising eyes, saying nothing about the bruises he bore, +although Mackenzie knew he was burning with curiosity to go into the +matter of how and when he received them. + +Sullivan was a man of calm benignity of face, a placid certainty of +his power and place in the world; a rugged man, broad-handed, slow. +His pleasure was in the distinction of his wealth, and not in any use +that he made of it for his own comfort or the advancement of those +under his hand. Even so, he was of a type superior to the general run +of flockmasters such as Mackenzie had met. + +"I'll give you a job helpin' me on this hay for a few days, and kind +of try you out," Tim agreed at last. "I don't want to discourage you +at the start, but I don't believe you got the mettle in you to make a +flockmaster, if you want to call it that, out of." + +"All right; I'll help you on the hay. Before I start in though, I'd +like to borrow a saddle-horse from you to take a ride down the creek +to Swan Carlson's place. I wouldn't be long." + +"Carlson's place? Do you know Swan Carlson?" + +Mackenzie told in few words how much he knew of Carlson, and his +reason for desiring to visit him. Tim's wonder was too large to +contain at hearing this news. He got up, his eyes staring in plain +incredulity, his mouth open a bit between surprise and censure, it +seemed. But he said nothing for a little while; only stood and looked +Mackenzie over again, with more careful scrutiny than before. + +"I'll go down with you," he announced, turning abruptly away to get +the horses. + +It was evident to Mackenzie that Sullivan was bewildered between doubt +and suspicion as they rode toward Carlson's ranch, which the sheepman +said was about seven miles away. But he betrayed nothing of his +thoughts in words, riding in silence mainly, looking at the ground +like a man who had troubles on his mind. + +The silence of abandonment was over Carlson's house as they rode up. A +few chickens retreated from the yard to the cover of the barn in the +haste of panic, their going being the only sound of life about the +place. The door through which Mackenzie had left was shut; he +approached it without hesitation--Tim Sullivan lingering back as if in +doubt of their reception--and knocked. No answer. Mackenzie tried the +door, finding it unlocked; pushed it open, entered. + +Sullivan stood outside, one mighty hand on the jamb, his body to one +side under protection of the house, his head put cautiously and +curiously round to see, leaving a fairway for Swan Carlson should he +rise from a dark corner, shake himself like an old grizzly, and +charge. + +"Is he there?" Tim asked, his voice a strained whisper. + +Mackenzie did not reply. He stood in the middle of the room where his +combat with Swan had taken place, among the debris of broken dishes, +wrecked table, fallen stovepipe and tinware, looking about him with +grim interest. There was nobody in the other room, but the blood from +Swan's hurt trailed across the floor as if he had been helped to the +bed. Tim took his courage in both hands and came just inside the +door. + +"Man! Look at the blood!" he said. + +"There's nobody here," Mackenzie told him, turning to go. + +"She's took him to the doctor," said Tim. + +"Where is that?" + +"There's a kind of a one over on the Sweetwater, sixty miles from +here, but there's no good one this side of Jasper." + +"He'll die on the way," Mackenzie said conclusively. + +"No such luck," said Tim. "Look! There's the chain he tied that woman +of his up with." + +"We'd better go back and get at that hay," Mackenzie said. "There's +nothing I can do for Carlson." + +"There's the table leg you hit him with!" Tim picked it up, plucking +off the red hairs which clung to it, looking at Mackenzie with +startled eyes. Mackenzie mounted his horse. + +"You'd better shut the door," he called back as he rode away. + +Tim caught up with him half a mile on the way back to the hay-field. +The sheepman seemed to have outrun his words. A long time he rode +beside Mackenzie in silence, turning a furtive eye upon him across his +long nose now and then. At last it burst from him: + +"You done it!" he said, with the astonished pleasure of a man assured +against his doubts. + +Mackenzie checked his horse, looking at Tim in perplexed inquiry. + +"What are you talking about?" he asked. + +"You laid him out--Swan Carlson--you done it! Man!" + +"Oh, you're still talking about that," Mackenzie said, a bit vexed. + +"It would be worth thousands to the rest of us sheepmen on this range +if he never comes back." + +"Why didn't some of you handle him long ago? A man of your build ought +to be able to put a dent in Carlson." + +"I'll fight any man that stands on two feet," said Tim, with such +sincerity that it could not have been taken for a boast, "you can ask +about me far and near, but I draw the line at the devil. I've stood up +with four men against me, with meat cleavers and butcher knives in +their hands, when I used to work as a sheep butcher back in the +packin' house in Chicago, and I've come through with my life. But them +was friends of mine," he sighed; "a man knew how they lived. Swan +Carlson's got a wolf's blood in his veins. He ain't a human man." + +"And this man is worth three hundred thousand dollars!" thought +Mackenzie. And he knew, also, that the greatest treasure that the +flockmaster could count was one not so greatly appreciated as a +thousand sheep--that brave, ambitious little rebel, Joan. + +"Maybe you've got the makin' of a sheepman in you," Tim said, +thoughtfully, as they came in sight of the hay. "I've got an old man I +could put you under till the dogs got used to you and you learnt their +ways and found out something among the thousand things a man's got to +know if he intends to make a success of runnin' sheep. Old Dad Frazer +could put you onto the tricks of the trade quicker than any man I +know. Maybe you _have_ got the makin' of a sheepman in you. I'll have +to think it over." + +Tim took the four days they were at the hay to think about it. At the +end of that time, with the hay in stack and the mowing-machine loaded +into the wagon for the rough journey to the ranch, Tim unburdened his +mind. + +"I've decided to try you out, John," he announced, but shaking his +head as he spoke, as if he doubted the wisdom of the venture. "I'll +leave you here with Dad Frazer--he's over on Horsethief, about six +miles across from Joan's range--and let him break you in. You +understand, you don't go in on shares till you're able to handle at +least two thousand head." + +"I agree on that." + +"And then there's another little point." Tim shifted his feet, jerked +up his trousers, rubbed his chin in a truly Irish way. "That girl of +mine, Joan, she's got it in her head she wants to be a lady, and go to +college and put on agonies. No use in it, as I tell her. No girl +that's got money needs any of the education stuff. I got on without +it, and I made my money without it. Joan she wants you to give her +some lessons. She made me promise I wouldn't take you on unless you'd +agree to that as part of our conditions and contract." + +Mackenzie had no need to put on a face of thinking it over seriously; +he was entirely sincere in the silence he held while he revolved it in +his mind. He doubted whether more learning would bring to Joan the +contentment which she lacked in her present state. It might only open +the door to a greater longing, or it might disillusion her when her +feet had left these wild, free hills, and set a pang in her heart like +a flame for the things which knowledge closes the door against the +return for evermore. + +"I'll tell you how to handle her to be rid of her soon," said Tim, +winking craftily, seeing how the wind stood. "Discourage her, tell her +she ain't got the mind for books and Latin and mathematics. All the +mathematics she needs is enough to count her sheep and figure her +clip. Tell her to put books out of her head and stick to the range, +marry some good sheepman if one turns up to her taste, or pass them +all up if she likes. But tell her to stick to sheep, whatever she +does. She can be the sheep queen of this country in fifteen years; +she's as handy with 'em now as I am, and I tell you, John, that's +something that's hard for me to say, even of my own girl. But she is; +she's as good a sheepman right now as I am or ever will be. But you +don't need to tell her that." + +"I don't believe she'll take it, but it's the soundest advice I could +give her," Mackenzie said. + +"Work up to it gradual, lad; it can't be done in a day. Make the +lessons hard, pile the Latin on heavy. Lord, I remember it, back in +the old country, old Father MacGuire layin' it on the lads under his +thumb. Devil a word of it sticks to me now, not even the word for +sheep. I tried to remember some of it when they sent me up to the +legislature in Cheyenne; I wanted to knock 'em over. But it had all +leaked out. Discourage her, man; discourage her." + +"Yes, that might be the greatest kindness I could do her in the end," +Mackenzie said. + +"I'll drop you off over there; you can stay in camp tonight with +Charley and Joan. Tomorrow I'll come back and take you out to Dad +Frazer's camp, and you can begin your schoolin' for the makin' of a +master. But begin early to discourage her, John; begin at her early, +lad." + + + + +CHAPTER VI + +EYES IN THE FIRELIGHT + + +"They call it the lonesomeness here," said Joan, her voice weary as +with the weight of the day. "People shoot themselves when they get it +bad--green sheepherders and farmers that come in here to try to plow +up the range." + +"Crazy guys," said Charley, contemptuously, chin in his hands where he +stretched full length on his belly beside the embers of the supper +fire. + +"Homesick," said Mackenzie, understandingly. "I've heard it's one of +the worst of all diseases. It defeats armies sometimes, so you can't +blame a lone sheepherder if he loses his mind on account of it." + +"Huh!" said Charley, no sympathy in him for such weakness at all. + +"I guess not," Joan admitted, thoughtfully. "I was brought up here, +it's home to me. Maybe I'd get the lonesomeness if I was to go away." + +"You sure would, kid," said Charley, with comfortable finality. + +"But I want to go, just the same," Joan declared, a certain defiance +in her tone, as if in defense of a question often disputed between +herself and Charley. + +"You think you do," said Charley, "but you'd hit the high places +comin' back home. Ain't that right, Mr. Mackenzie?" + +"I think there's something to it," Mackenzie allowed. + +"Maybe I would," Joan yielded, "but as soon as my share in the sheep +figures up enough you'll see me hittin' the breeze for Chicago. I want +to see the picture galleries and libraries." + +"I'd like to go through the mail-order house we get our things from up +there," Charley said. "The catalogue says it covers seventeen acres!" + +Mackenzie was camping with them for the night on his way to Dad +Frazer's range, according to Tim Sullivan's plan. Long since they had +finished supper; the sheep were quiet below them on the hillside. The +silence of the sheeplands, almost oppressive in its weight, lay around +them so complete and unbroken that Mackenzie fancied he could hear the +stars snap as they sparkled. He smiled to himself at the fancy, face +turned up to the deep serenity of the heavens. Charley blew the +embers, stirring them with a brush of sage. + +"The lonesomeness," said Mackenzie, with a curious dwelling on the +word; "I never heard it used in that specific sense before." + +"Well, it sure gets a greenhorn," said Joan. + +Charley held the sage-branch to the embers, blowing them until a +little blaze jumped up into the startled dark. The sudden light +revealed Joan's face where she sat across from Mackenzie, and it was +so pensively sad that it smote his heart like a pain to see. + +Her eyes stood wide open as she had stretched them to roam into the +night after her dreams of freedom beyond the land she knew, and so she +held them a moment, undazzled by the light of the leaping blaze. They +gleamed like glad waters in a morning sun, and the schoolmaster's +heart was quickened by them, and the pain for her longing soothed out +of it. The well of her youth was revealed before him, the fountain of +her soul. + +"I'm goin' to roll in," Charley announced, his branch consumed in the +eager breath of the little blaze. "Don't slam your shoes down like you +was drivin' nails when you come in, Joan." + +"It wouldn't bother you much," Joan told him, calmly indifferent to +his great desire for unbroken repose. + +Charley rolled on his back, where he lay a little while in luxurious +inaction, sleep coming over him heavily. Joan shook him, sending him +stumbling off to the wagon and his bunk. + +"You could drive a wagon over him and never wake him once he hits the +hay," she said. + +"What kind of a man is Dad Frazer?" Mackenzie asked, his mind running +on his business adventure that was to begin on the morrow. + +"Oh, he's a regular old flat-foot," said Joan. "He'll talk your leg +off before you've been around him a week, blowin' about what he used +to do down in Oklahoma." + +"Well, a man couldn't get the lonesomeness around him, anyhow." + +"You'll get it, all right, just like I told you; no green hand with +all his senses ever escaped it. Maybe you'll have it light, though," +she added, hopefully, as if to hold him up for the ordeal. + +"I hope so. But with you coming over to take lessons, and Dad Frazer +talking morning, noon, and night, I'll forget Egypt and its fleshpots, +maybe." + +"Egypt? I thought you came from Jasper?" + +"It's only a saying, used in relation to the place you look back to +with regret when you're hungry." + +"I'm so ignorant I ought to be shot!" said Joan. + +And Mackenzie sat silently fronting her, the dead fire between, a long +time, thinking of the sparkle of her yearning eyes, smiling in his +grim way to himself when there was no chance of being seen as he felt +again the flash of them strike deep into his heart. Wise eyes, eyes +which held a store of wholesome knowledge gleaned from the years in +those silent places where her soul had grown without a shadow to +smirch its purity. + +"There's a difference between wisdom and learning," he said at last, +in low and thoughtful voice. "What's it like over where Dad Frazer +grazes his sheep?" + +"Close to the range Swan Carlson and the Hall boys use, and you want +to keep away from there." + +"Of course; I wouldn't want to trespass on anybody's territory. Are +they all disagreeable people over that way?" + +"There's nobody there but the Halls and Carlson. You know Swan." + +"He might improve on close acquaintance," Mackenzie speculated. + +"I don't think he's as bad as the Halls, wild and crazy as he is. +Hector Hall, especially. But you may get on with them, all right--I +don't want to throw any scare into you before you meet them." + +"Are they out looking for trouble?" + +"I don't know as they are, but they're there to make it if anybody +lets a sheep get an inch over the line they claim as theirs. Oh, +well, pass 'em up till you have to meet them--maybe they'll treat you +white, anyway." + +Again a silence stood between them, Mackenzie considering many things, +not the least of them being this remarkable girl's life among the +sheep and the rough characters of the range, no wonder in him over her +impatience to be away from it. It seemed to him that Tim Sullivan +might well spare her the money for schooling, as well as fend her +against the dangers and hardships of the range by keeping her at home +these summer days. + +"It looks to me like a hard life for a girl," he said; "no diversions, +none of the things that youth generally values and craves. Don't you +ever have any dances or anything--camp meetings or picnics?" + +"They have dances over at Four Corners sometimes--Hector Hall wanted +me to go to one with him about a year ago. He had his nerve to ask me, +the little old sheep-thief!" + +"Well, I should think so." + +"He's been doubly sore at us ever since I turned him down. I looked +for him to come over and shoot up my camp some night for a long time, +but I guess he isn't that bad." + +"So much to his credit." + +"But I wish sometimes I'd gone with him. Maybe it would have +straightened things out. You know, when you stay here on the range, +Mr. Mackenzie, you're on a level with everybody else, no matter what +you think of yourself. You can't get out of the place they make for +you in their estimation of you. Hector Hall never will believe I'm +too good to go to a dance with him. He'll be sore about it all his +life." + +"A man naturally would have regrets, Miss Sullivan. Maybe that's as +far as it goes with Hector Hall, maybe he's only sore at heart for the +honor denied." + +"That don't sound like real talk," said Joan. + +Mackenzie grinned at the rebuke, and the candor and frankness in which +it was administered, thinking that Joan would have a frigid time of it +out in the world if she applied such outspoken rules to its flatteries +and mild humbugs. + +"Let's be natural then," he suggested, considering as he spoke that +candor was Joan's best defense in her position on the range. Here she +sat out under the stars with him, miles from the nearest habitation, +miles from her father's house, her small protector asleep in the +wagon, and thought no more of it than a chaperoned daughter of the +city in an illuminated drawing-room. A girl had to put men in their +places and keep them there under such circumstances, and nobody knew +better how to do it than Joan. + +"I'll try your patience and good humor when you start out to teach +me," she told him, "for I'll want to run before I learn to walk." + +"We'll see how it goes in a few days; I've sent for the books." + +"I'll make a good many wild breaks," she said, "and tumble around a +lot, I know, but there won't be anybody to laugh at me--but you." She +paused as if considering the figure she would make at the tasks she +awaited with such impatience, then added under her breath, almost in +a whisper, as if it was not meant for him to hear: "But you'll never +laugh at me for being hungry to learn." + +Mackenzie attempted neither comment nor reply to this, feeling that it +was Joan's heart speaking to herself alone. He looked away over the +sleeping sheeplands, vast as the sea, and as mysterious under the +starlight, thinking that it would require more than hard lessons and +unusual tasks to discourage this girl. She stood at the fountain-edge, +leaning with dry lips to drink, her wistful eyes strong to probe the +mysteries which lay locked in books yet strange to her, but wiser in +her years than many a man who had skimmed a college course. There was +a vast difference between knowledge and learning, indeed; it never had +been so apparent to him as in the presence of that outspoken girl of +the sheep range that summer night. + +What would the world do with Joan Sullivan if she ever broke her +fetters and went to it? How would it accept her faith and frankness, +her high scorn for the deceits upon which it fed? Not kindly, he knew. +There would be disillusionment ahead for her, and bitter awakening +from long-wrapping dreams. If he could teach her to be content in the +wide freedom of that place he would accomplish the greatest service +that he could bring her in the days of her untroubled youth. +Discourage her, said Tim Sullivan. Mackenzie felt that this was not +his job. + +"Maybe Charley's right about it," she said, her voice low, and soft +with that inherited gentleness which must have come from Tim +Sullivan's mother, Mackenzie thought. "He's a wise kid, maybe I would +want to come back faster than I went away. But I get so tired of it +sometimes I walk up and down out here by the wagon half the night, and +wear myself out making plans that I may never be able to put +through." + +"It's just as well," he told her, nodding again in his solemn, weighty +fashion; "everybody that amounts to anything has this fever of unrest. +Back home we used to stack the wheat to let it sweat and harden. +You're going through that. It takes the grossness out of us." + +"Have you gone through it?" + +"Years of it; over the worst of it now, I hope." + +"And you came here. Was that the kind of an ambition you had? Was that +all your dreams brought you?" + +"But I've seen more here than I ever projected in my schemes, Miss +Joan. I've seen the serenity of the stars in this vastness; I've felt +the wind of freedom on my face." And to himself: "And I have seen the +firelight leap in a maiden's eyes, and I have looked deep into the +inspiring fountain of her soul." But there was not the boldness in +him, nor the desire to risk her rebuke again, to bring it to his +lips. + +"Do you think you'll like it after you get over the lonesomeness?" + +"Yes, if I take the lonesomeness." + +"You'll take it, all right. But if you ever do work up to be a +sheepman, and of course you will if you stick to the range long +enough, you'll never be able to leave again. Sheep tie a person down +like a houseful of children." + +"Maybe I'd never want to go. I've had my turn at it out there; I've +been snubbed and discounted, all but despised, because I had a little +learning and no money to go with it. I can hide my little learning +here, and nobody seems to care about the money. Yes, I think I'll stay +on the range." + +Joan turned her face away, and he knew the yearning was in her eyes as +they strained into the starlit horizon after the things she had never +known. + +"I don't see what could ever happen that would make me want to stay +here," she said at last. She got up with the sudden nimbleness of a +deer, so quickly that Mackenzie though she must be either startled or +offended, but saw in a moment it was only her natural way of moving in +the untrammeled freedom of her lithe, strong limbs. + +"You'll find a soft place on the side of the hill somewhere to sleep," +she said, turning toward the wagon. "I'm going to pile in. Good +night." + +Mackenzie sat again by the ashes of the little fire after giving her +good night. He felt that he had suffered in her estimation because of +his lowly ambition to follow her father, and the hundred other obscure +heroes of the sheep country, and become a flockmaster, sequestered and +safe among the sage-gray hills. + +Joan expected more of a man who was able to teach school; expected +lofty aims, far-reaching ambitions. But that was because Joan did not +know the world that lifted the lure of its flare beyond the rim of her +horizon. She must taste it to understand, and come back with a bruised +heart to the shelter of her native hills. + +And this lonesomeness of which she had been telling him, this dread +sickness that fell upon a man in those solitudes, and drained away his +courage and hope--must he experience it, like a disease of adolescence +from which few escape? He did not believe it. Joan had said she was +immune to it, having been born in its atmosphere, knowing nothing but +solitude and silence, in which there was no strange nor fearful +thing. + +But she fretted under a discontent that made her miserable, even +though it did not strain her reason like the lonesomeness. Something +was wanting to fill her life. He cast about him, wondering what it +could be, wishing that he might supply it and take away the shadow out +of her eyes. + +It was his last thought as he fell asleep in a little swale below the +wagon where the grass was tall and soft--that he might find what was +lacking to make Joan content with the peace and plenty of the +sheeplands, and supply that want. + + + + +CHAPTER VII + +THE EASIEST LESSON + + +"Why do they always begin the conjugations on _love_?" + +There was no perplexity in Joan's eyes as she asked the question; +rather, a dreamy and far-away look, the open book face-downward on the +ground beside her. + +"Because it's a good example of the first termination, I suppose," +Mackenzie replied, his eyes measuring off the leagues with her own, as +if they together sought the door that opened out of that gray land +into romance that quiet summer afternoon. + +"It was that way in the Spanish grammar," said Joan, shaking her head, +unconvinced by the reason he advanced. "There are plenty of words in +the first termination that are just as short. Why? You're the teacher; +you ought to know." + +She said it banteringly, as if she dared him to give the reason. His +eyes came back from their distant groping, meeting hers with gentle +boldness. So for a little while he looked silently into her appealing +eyes, then turned away. + +"Maybe, Joan, because it is the easiest lesson to learn and the +hardest to forget," he said. + +Joan bent her gaze upon the ground, a flush tinting her brown face, +plucking at the grass with aimless fingers. + +"Anyway, we've passed it," said she. + +"No, it recurs all through the book; it's something that can't be left +out of it, any more than it can be left out of life. Well, it doesn't +need to trouble you and me." + +"No; we could use some other word," said Joan, turning her face away. + +"But mean the same, Joan. I had an old maid English teacher when I was +a boy who made us conjugate _to like_ instead of the more intimate and +tender word. Poor old soul! I hope it saved her feelings and eased her +regrets." + +"Maybe she'd had a romance," said Joan. + +"I hope so; there's at least one romance coming to every woman in this +world. If she misses it she's being cheated." + +Mackenzie took up the Latin grammar, marking off her next lesson, and +piling it on with unsparing hand, too. Yet not in accord with Tim +Sullivan's advice; solely because his pupil was one of extraordinary +capacity. There was no such thing as discouraging Joan; she absorbed +learning and retained it, as the sandstone absorbs oil under the +pressure of the earth, holding it without wasting a drop until the day +it gladdens man in his exploration. + +So with Joan. She was storing learning in the undefiled reservoir of +her mind, to be found like unexpected jewels by some hand in after +time. As she followed the sheep she carried her books; at night, long +after Charley had gone to sleep, she sat with them by the lantern +light in the sheep-wagon. Unspoiled by the diversions and distractions +which divide the mind of the city student, she acquired and held a +month's tasks in a week. The thirsty traveler in the desert places had +come to the oasis of her dreams. + +Daily Joan rode to the sheep-camp where Mackenzie was learning the +business of running sheep under Dad Frazer. There were no holidays in +the term Joan had set for herself, no unbending, no relaxation from +her books. Perhaps she did not expect her teacher to remain there in +the sheeplands, shut away from the life that he had breathed so long +and put aside for what seemed to her an unaccountable whim. + +"You'll be reading Caesar by winter," Mackenzie told her as she +prepared to ride back to her camp. "You'll have to take it slower +then; we can't have lessons every day." + +"Why not?" She was standing beside her horse, hat in hand, her rich +hair lifting in the wind from her wise, placid brow. Her books she had +strapped to the saddle-horn; there was a yellow slicker at the +cantle. + +"You'll be at home, I'll be out here with the sheep. I expect about +once a week will be as often as we can make it then." + +"I'll be out here on the range," she said, shaking her determined +head, "a sheepman's got to stick with his flock through all kinds of +weather. If I run home for the winter I'll have to hire a herder, and +that would eat my profits up; I'd never get away from here." + +"Maybe by the time you've got enough money to carry out your plans, +Joan, you'll not want to leave." + +"You've got to have education to be able to enjoy money. Some of the +sheepmen in this country--yes, most of them--would be better men if +they were poor. Wealth is nothing to them but a dim consciousness of a +new power. It makes them arrogant and unbearable. Did you ever see +Matt Hall?" + +"I still have that pleasure in reserve. But I think you'll find it's +refinement, rather than learning, that a person needs to enjoy wealth. +That comes more from within than without." + +"The curtain's down between me and everything I want," Joan said, a +wistful note of loneliness in her low, soft voice. "I'm going to ride +away some day and push it aside, and see what it's been keeping from +me all the years of my longing. Then, maybe, when I'm satisfied I'll +come back and make money. I've got sense enough to see it's here to be +made if a person's got the sheep to start with and the range to run +them on." + +"Yes, you'll have to go," said he, in what seemed sad thoughtfulness, +"to learn it all; I can't teach you the things your heart desires most +to know. Well, there are bitter waters and sweet waters, Joan; we've +got to drink them both." + +"It's the same way here," she said, "only we've got sense enough to +know the alkali holes before we drink out of them." + +"But people are not that wise the world over, Joan." + +Joan stood in silent thought, her far-reaching gaze on the dim curtain +of haze which hung between her and the world of men's activities, +strivings, and lamentations. + +"If I had the money I'd go as soon--as soon as I knew a little more," +she said. "But I've got to stick; I made that bargain with dad--he'd +never give me the money, but he'll buy me out when I've got enough to +stake me." + +"Your father was over this morning." + +"Yes, I know." + +"He thinks _my_ education's advanced far enough to trust me with a +band of sheep. I'm going to have charge of the flock I've been running +here with Dad Frazer." + +"I heard about it." + +"And you don't congratulate me on becoming a paid sheepherder, my +first step on the way to flockmaster!" + +"I don't know that you're to be congratulated," she returned, facing +him seriously. "All there is to success here is brute strength and +endurance against storms and winter weather--it don't take any brains. +Out there where you've been and I'm going, there must be something +bigger and better for a man, it seems to me. But maybe men get tired +of it--I don't know." + +"You'll understand it better when you go there, Joan." + +"Yes, I'll understand a lot of things that are locked up to me now. +Well, I don't want to go as much all the time now as I did--only in +spells sometimes. If you stay here and teach me, maybe I'll get over +it for good." + +Joan laughed nervously, half of it forced, her face averted. + +"If I could teach you enough to keep you here, Joan, I'd think it was +the biggest thing I'd ever done." + +"I don't want to know any more if it means giving up," she said. + +"It looks like giving up to you, Joan, but I've only started," he +corrected her, in gentle spirit. + +"I oughtn't talk that way to you," she said, turning to him +contritely, her earnest eyes lifted to his, "it's none of my business +what you do. If you hadn't come here I'd never have heard of--of +_amare_, maybe." + +Joan bent her head, a flush over her brown cheeks, a smile of mischief +at the corners of her mouth. Mackenzie laughed, but strained and +unnaturally, his own tough face burning with a hot tide of mounting +blood. + +"Somebody else would have taught you--you'd have conjugated it in +another language, maybe," he said. + +"Yes, you say it's the easiest lesson to learn," she nodded, soberly +now. "Have you taught it to many--many--girls?" + +"According to the book, Joan," he returned; "only that way." + +Joan drew a deep breath, and looked away over the hills, and smiled. +But she said no more, after the way of one who has relieved the mind +on a doubted point. + +"I expect I'll be getting a taste of the lonesomeness here of nights +pretty soon," Mackenzie said, feeling himself in an awkward, yet not +unpleasant situation with this frank girl's rather impertinent +question still burning in his heart. "Dad's going to leave me to take +charge of another flock." + +"I'll try to keep you so busy you'll not have it very bad," she said. + +"Yes, and you'll pump your fount of knowledge dry in a hurry if you +don't slow down a little," he returned. "At the pace you've set you'll +have to import a professor to take you along, unless one strays in +from somewhere." + +"I don't take up with strays," said Joan, rather loftily. + +"I think Dad's getting restless," Mackenzie said, hastening to cover +his mistake. + +"He goes away every so often," Joan explained, "to see his Mexican +wife down around El Paso somewhere." + +"Oh, that explains it. He didn't mention her to me." + +"He will, all right. He'll cut out to see her in a little while, more +than likely, but he'll come drifting back with the shearers in the +spring like he always does. It seems to me like everybody comes back +to the sheep country that's ever lived in it a while. I wonder if I'd +want to come back, too?" + +It was a speculation upon which Mackenzie did not feel called to make +comment. Time alone would prove to Joan where her heart lay anchored, +as it proves to all who go wandering in its own bitter way at last. + +"I don't seem to want to go away as long as I'm learning something," +Joan confessed, a little ashamed of the admission, it appeared, from +her manner of refusing to lift her head. + +Mackenzie felt a great uplifting in his heart, as a song cheers it +when it comes gladly at the close of a day of perplexity and doubt and +toil. He reached out his hand as if to touch her and tell her how this +dawning of his hope made him glad, but withdrew it, dropping it at his +side as she looked up, a lively color in her cheeks. + +"As long as you'll stay and teach me, there isn't any particular use +for me to leave, is there?" she inquired. + +"If staying here would keep you, Joan, I'd never leave," he told her, +his voice so grave and earnest that it trembled a little on the low +notes. + +Joan drew her breath again with that long inspiration which was like a +satisfied sigh. + +"Well, I must go," she said. + +But she did not move, and Mackenzie, drawing nearer, put out his hand +in his way of silent appeal again. + +"Not that I don't want you to know what there is out there," he said, +"but because I'd save you the disappointment, the disillusionment, and +the heartache that too often go with the knowledge of the world. You'd +be better for it if you never knew, living here undefiled like a +spring that comes out of the rocks into the sun." + +"Well, I must go," said Joan, sighing with repletion again, but taking +no step toward her waiting horse. + +Although it was a moment which seemed full of things to be said, +neither had words for it, but stood silently while the day went out in +glory around them. Dad Frazer was bringing his murmuring flock home to +the bedding-ground on the hillside below the wagon; the wind was low +as a lover's breath, lifting Joan's russet hair from her pure, placid +brow. + +And she must go at last, with a word of parting from the saddle, and +her hand held out to him in a new tenderness as if going home were a +thing to be remembered. And as Mackenzie took it there rose in his +memory the lines: + + _Touch hands and part with laughter, + Touch lips and part with tears._ + +Joan rode away against the sun, which was red upon the hill, and stood +for a little moment sharply against the fiery sky to wave him a +farewell. + +"So easily learned, Joan; so hard to forget," said Mackenzie, speaking +as if he sent his voice after her, a whisper on the wind, although she +was half a mile away. A moment more, and the hill stood empty between +them. Mackenzie turned to prepare supper for the coming of Dad Frazer, +who would complain against books and the nonsense contained in them if +the food was not on the board when he came up the hill. + + + + +CHAPTER VIII + +THE SHEEP-KILLER + + +It was dusk when Dad Frazer drove the slow-drifting flock home to its +sleeping place, which tomorrow night very likely would be on some +hillside no softer, many miles away. Only a few days together the camp +remained in one place, no longer than it took the sheep to crop the +herbage within easy reach. Then came the camp-mover and hauled the +wagon to fresh pastures in that illimitable, gray-green land. + +Dad Frazer was a man of sixty or sixty-five, who had been an army +teamster in the days of frontier posts. He was slender and sinewy, +with beautiful, glimmering, silvery hair which he wore in long curls +and kept as carefully combed as any dandy that ever pranced at the +court of a king. It was his one vanity, his dusty, greasy raiment +being his last thought. + +Dad's somber face was brown and weathered, marked with deep lines, +covered over with an ashy, short growth of beard which he clipped once +in two weeks with sheep-shears when he didn't lose count of the days. + +Frazer always wore an ancient military hat with a leather thong at the +back of his head drawn tight across his flowing hair. The brim of this +hat turned up in the back as if he had slept in it many years, which +was indeed the case, and down in the front so low over his brows that +it gave him a sullen and clouded cast, which the redundancy of his +spirits and words at once denied. + +For Dad Frazer was a loquacious sheepherder, an exception among the +morose and silent men who follow that isolated calling upon the lonely +range. He talked to the dogs when there was nobody by, to the sheep as +he scattered them for an even chance between weak and strong over the +grazing lands, and to himself when no other object presented. He swore +with force and piquancy, and original embellishments for old-time +oaths which was like a sharp sauce to an unsavory dish. + +Frazer was peculiar in another way. He liked a soft bed to pound the +ground on after his long days after the sheep, and to that end kept a +roll of sheepskins under the wagon. More than that, he always washed +before eating, even if he had to divide the last water in the keg. + +Now as he was employed with his ablutions, after a running fire of +talk from the time he came within hearing to the moment the water +smothered his voice over the basin, Mackenzie saw him turn an eye in +his direction every little while between the soaping and the washing +of his bearded face. The old fellow seemed bursting with restraint of +something that he had not told or asked about. Mackenzie could read +him like a thermometer. + +"What's the matter, Dad--rattlesnakes?" he asked. + +"Rattlesnakes nothin'!" returned the old man. + +"I thought another one had been crawling up your leg." + +"Nearer boey constructors! Anybody been here but Joan?" + +"No." + +Dad came over to the tail of the wagon, where Mackenzie had supper +spread on a board, a box at each end, for that was a sheep-camp _de +luxe_. He stood a little while looking about in the gloom, his head +tipped as if he listened, presently taking his place, unaccountably +silent, and uncomfortably so, as Mackenzie could very well see. + +"You didn't lose a dog, did you, Dad?" + +"Dog nothin'! Do I look like a man that'd lose a dog?" + +"Well, Dad," Mackenzie said, in his slow, thoughtful way, "I don't +exactly know how a man that would lose a dog looks, but I don't +believe you do." + +"Swan Carlson's back on the range!" said Dad, delivering it before he +was ready, perhaps, and before he had fully prepared the way, but +unable to hold it a second longer. + +"Swan Carlson?" + +"Back on the range." + +"So they fixed him up in the hospital at Cheyenne?" + +"I reckon they must 'a'. He's back runnin' his sheep, and that woman +of his'n she's with him. Swan run one of his herders off the first +rattle out of the box, said he'd been stealin' sheep while he was +gone. That's one of his old tricks to keep from payin' a man." + +"It sounds like him, all right. Have you seen him?" + +"No. Matt Hall come by this evenin', and told me." + +"I'm glad Swan got all right again, anyhow, even if he's no better to +his wife than he was before. I was kind of worried about him." + +"Yes, and I'll bet he's meaner than he ever was, knockin' that woman +around like a sack of sawdust the way he always did. I reckon he gets +more fun out of her that way than he does keepin' her tied." + +"He can hang her for all I'll ever interfere between them again, +Dad." + +"That's right. It don't pay to shove in between a man and his wife in +their fusses and disturbances. I know a colonel in the army that's got +seventeen stitches in his bay winder right now from buttin' in between +a captain and his woman. The lady she slid a razor over his vest. +They'll do it every time; it's woman nature." + +"You talk like a man of experience, Dad. Well, I don't know much about +'em." + +"Yes, I've been marryin' 'em off and on for forty years." + +"Who is Matt Hall, and where's his ranch, Dad? I've been hearing about +him and his brother, Hector, ever since I came up here." + +"Them Hall boys used to be cattlemen up on the Sweetwater, but they +was run out of there on account of suspicion of rustlin', I hear. They +come down to this country about four years ago and started up sheep, +usin' on Cottonwood about nine or twelve miles southeast from here. +Them fellers don't hitch up with nobody on this range but Swan +Carlson, and I reckon Swan only respects 'em because they're the only +men in this country that packs guns regular any more." + +"Swan don't pack a gun as a regular thing?" + +"I ain't never seen him with one on. Hector Hall he's always got a +couple of 'em on him, and Matt mostly has one in sight. You can gamble +on it he's got an automatic in his pocket when he don't strap it on +him in the open." + +"I don't see what use a man's got for a gun up here among sheep and +sheepmen. They must be expecting somebody to call on them from the old +neighborhood." + +"Yes, I figger that's about the size of it. I don't know what Matt was +doin' over around here this evenin'; I know I didn't send for him." + +"Joan spoke of him this afternoon. From what she said, I thought he +must be something of a specimen. What kind of a looking duck is he?" + +"Matt's a mixture of a goriller and a goose egg. He's a long-armed, +short-legged, gimlet-eyed feller with a head like a egg upside down. +You could split a board on that feller's head and never muss a hair. I +never saw a man that had a chin like Matt Hall. They say a big chin's +the sign of strength, and if that works out Matt must have a mind like +a brigadier general. His face is all chin; chin's an affliction on +Matt Hall; it's a disease. Wait till you see him; that's all I can +say." + +"I'll know him when I do." + +"Hector ain't so bad, but he's got a look in his eyes like a man +that'd grab you by the nose and cut your throat, and grin while he was +doin' it." + +Mackenzie made no comment on these new and picturesque characters +introduced by Dad into the drama that was forming for enactment in +that place. He filled his pipe and smoked a little while. Then: + +"How many sheep do they run?" he asked. + +"Nine or ten thousand, I guess." + +Silence again. Dad was smoking a little Mexican cigarette with +corn-husk wrapper, a peppery tobacco filling that smarted the eyes +when it burned, of which he must have carried thousands when he left +the border in the spring. + +"Tim was over today," said Mackenzie. + +"What did he want?" + +"About this business between him and me. Is it usual, Dad, for a man +to work a year at forty dollars a month and found before he goes in as +a partner on the increase of the flock he runs?" + +"What makes you ask me that, John?" + +"Only because there wasn't anything said about it when I agreed with +Tim to go to work here with you and learn the rudiments of handling a +band of sheep. He sprung that on me today, when I thought I was about +to begin my career as a capitalist. Instead of that, I've got a year +ahead of me at ten dollars a month less than the ordinary herder gets. +I just wanted to know." + +"Sheepmen are like sand under the feet when it comes to dealin' with +'em; I never knew one that was in the same place twice. You've got a +lot of tricks to learn in this trade, and I guess this is one of them. +I don't believe Tim ever intends to let you in on shares; that ain't +his style. Never did take anybody in on shares but Joan, that I know +of. It looks to me like Tim's workin' you for all he can git out of +you. You'll herd for Tim a year at forty dollars, and teach Joan a +thousand dollars' worth while you're doin' it. You're a mighty +obligin' feller, it looks like to me." + +Mackenzie sat thinking it over. He rolled it in his mind quite a +while, considering its most unlikely side, considering it as a +question of comparative values, trying to convince himself that, if +nothing more came of it than a year's employment, he would be even +better off than teaching school. If Tim was indeed planning to profit +doubly by him during that year, Joan could have no knowledge of his +scheme, he was sure. + +On Joan's account he would remain, he told himself, at last, feeling +easier and less simple for the decision. Joan needed him, she counted +on him. Going would be a sad disappointment, a bitter discouragement, +to her. All on Joan's account, of course, he would remain; Joan, with +her russet hair, the purity of October skies in her eyes. Why, of +course. Duty made it plain to him; solely on account of Joan. + +"I'd rather be a foot-loose shearer, herdin' in between like I do, +than the richest sheepman on the range," said Dad. "They're tied down +to one little spot; they work out a hole in their piece of the earth +like a worm. It ain't no life. I can have more fun on forty dollars +than Tim Sullivan can out of forty thousand." + +Dad got out his greasy duck coat with sheepskin collar, such as +cattlemen and sheepmen, and all kinds of outdoor men in that country +wore, for the night was cool and damp with dew. Together they sat +smoking, no more discussion between them, the dogs out of sight down +the hill near the sheep. + +Not a sound came out of the sheep, bedded on the hillside in +contentment, secure in their trust of men and dogs. All day as they +grazed there rose a murmur out of them, as of discontent, complaint, +or pain. Now their quavering, pathetic voices were as still as the +wind. There was not a shuffle of hoof, not a sigh. + +Mackenzie thought of Joan, and the influence this solitary life, these +night silences, had borne in shading her character with the melancholy +which was so plainly apparent in her longing to be away. She yearned +for the sound of life, for the warmth of youth's eager fire beyond the +dusty gray loneliness of this sequestered place. Still, this was what +men and women in the crowded places thought of and longed toward as +freedom. Loose-footed here upon the hills, one might pass as free as +the wind, indeed, but there was something like the pain of prison +isolation in these night silences which bore down upon a man and made +him old. + +A sudden commotion among the sheep, terrified bleating, quick +scurrying of feet, shook Mackenzie out of his reflections. The dogs +charged down the hill and stood baying the disturber of the flock with +savage alarm, in which there was a note of fear. Dad stood a moment +listening, then reached into the wagon for the rifle. + +"Don't go down there!" he warned Mackenzie, who was running toward the +center of disturbance. "That's a grizzly--don't you hear them dogs?" + +Mackenzie stopped. The advance stampede of the terrified flock rushed +past him, dim in the deeper darkness near the ground. Below on the +hillside where the sheep bedded he could see nothing. Dad came up with +the gun. + +The sheep were making no outcry now, and scarcely any sound of +movement. After their first startled break they had bunched, and were +standing in their way of pathetic, paralyzing fear, waiting what +might befall. Dad fired several quick shots toward the spot where the +dogs were charging and retreating, voices thick in their throats from +their bristling terror of the thing that had come to lay tribute upon +the flock. + +"Don't go down there!" Dad cautioned again. "Git the lantern and light +it--maybe when he sees it he'll run. It's a grizzly. I didn't think +there was one in forty miles." + +Mackenzie took hold of the gun. + +"Give it to me--hand me another clip." + +Dad yielded it, warning Mackenzie again against any rash movement. But +his words were unheeded if not unheard. Mackenzie was running down the +hillside toward the dogs. Encouraged by his coming, they dashed +forward, Mackenzie halting to peer into the darkness ahead. There was +a sound of trampling, a crunching as of the rending of bones. He +fired; ran a little nearer, fired again. + +The dogs were pushing ahead now in pursuit of whatever it was that +fled. A moment, and Mackenzie heard the quick break of a galloping +horse; fired his remaining shots after it, and called Dad to fetch the +light. + +When the horse started, the dogs returned to the flock, too wise to +waste energy in a vain pursuit. At a word from Mackenzie they began +collecting the shuddering sheep. Dad Frazer came bobbing down the hill +with the lantern, breathing loud in his excitement. + +"Lord!" said he, when he saw the havoc his light revealed; "a regular +old murderin' stock-killer. And I didn't think there was any grizzly +in forty miles." + +Mackenzie took the lantern, sweeping its light over the mangled bodies +of several sheep, torn limb from limb, scattered about as if they had +been the center of an explosion. + +"A murderin' old stock-killer!" said Dad, panting, out of breath. + +Mackenzie held up the light, looking the old man in the face. + +"A grizzly don't hop a horse and lope off, and I never met one yet +that wore boots," said he. He swung the light near the ground again, +pointing to the trampled footprints among the mangled carcasses. + +"It was a man!" said Dad, in terrified amazement. "Tore 'em apart like +they was rabbits!" He looked up, his weathered face white, his eyes +staring. "It takes--it takes--Lord! Do you know how much muscle it +takes to tear a sheep up that a-way?" + +Mackenzie did not reply. He stood, turning a bloody heap of wool and +torn flesh with his foot, stunned by this unexampled excess of human +ferocity. + +Dad recovered from his amazement presently, bent and studied the +trampled ground. + +"I ain't so sure," he said. "Them looks like man's tracks, but a +grizzly's got a foot like a nigger, and one of them big fellers makes +a noise like a lopin' horse when he tears off through the bresh. I +tell you, John, no human man that ever lived could take a live sheep +and tear it up that a-way!" + +"All right, then; it was a bear," Mackenzie said, not disposed to +argue the matter, for argument would not change what he knew to be a +fact, nor yet convince Dad Frazer against his reason and experience. +But Mackenzie knew that they were the footprints of a man, and that +the noise of the creature running away from camp was the noise of a +galloping horse. + + + + +CHAPTER IX + +A TWO-GUN MAN + + +"You know, John, if a man's goin' to be a sheepman, John, he's got to +keep awake day and night. He ain't goin' to set gabbin' and let a +grizzly come right up under his nose and kill his sheep. It's the +difference between the man that wouldn't do it and the man that would +that makes the difference between a master and a man. That's the +difference that stands against Dad Frazer. He'd never work up to +partnership in a band of sheep if he lived seven hundred years." + +So Tim Sullivan, a few days after the raid on John Mackenzie's flock. +He had come over on hearing of it from Dad Frazer, who had gone to +take charge of another band. Tim was out of humor over the loss, small +as it was out of the thousands he numbered in his flocks. He concealed +his feelings as well as he could under a friendly face, but his words +were hard, the accusation and rebuke in them sharp. + +Mackenzie flared up at the raking-over Tim gave him, and turned his +face away to hold down a hot reply. Only after a struggle he composed +himself to speak. + +"I suppose it was because you saw the same difference in me that you +welched on your agreement to put me in a partner on the increase of +this flock as soon as Dad taught me how to work the sheep and handle +the dogs," he said. "That's an easy way for a man to slide out from +under his obligations; it would apply anywhere in life as well as in +the sheep business. I tell you now I don't think it was square." + +"Now, lad, I don't want you to look at it that way, not at all, not at +all, lad." Tim was as gentle as oil in his front now, afraid that he +was in the way of losing a good herder whom he had tricked into +working at a bargain price. "I don't think you understand the lay of +it, if you've got the impression I intended to take you in at the +jump-off, John. It's never done; it's never heard of. A man's got to +prove himself, like David of old. There's a lot of Goliaths here on +the range he's got to meet and show he's able to handle before any man +would trust him full shares on the increase of two thousand sheep." + +"You didn't talk that way at first," Mackenzie charged, rather +sulkily. + +"I took to you when I heard how you laid Swan out in that fight you +had with him, John. That was a recommendation. But it wasn't enough, +for it was nothing but a chance lucky blow you got in on him that give +you the decision. If you'd 'a' missed him, where would you 'a' been +at?" + +"That's got nothing to do with your making a compact and breaking it. +You've got no right to come here beefing around about the loss of a +few sheep with a breach of contract on your side of the fence. You've +put it up to me now like you should have done in the beginning. All +right; I'll prove myself, like David. But remember there was another +fellow by the name of Jacob that went in on a livestock deal with a +slippery man, and stick to your agreement this time." + +"I don't want you to feel that I'm takin' advantage of you, John; I +don't want you to feel that way." + +"I don't just feel it; I know it. I'll pay you for the seven sheep the +grizzly killed, and take it out of his hide when I catch him." + +This offer mollified Tim, melting him down to smiles. He shook hands +with Mackenzie, all the heartiness on his side, refusing the offer +with voluble protestations that he neither expected nor required it. + +"You've got the makin' of a sheepman in you, John; I always thought +you had. But----" + + * * * * * + +"You want to be shown. All right; I'm game, even at forty dollars and +found." + +Tim beamed at this declaration, but the fires of his satisfaction he +was crafty enough to hide from even Mackenzie's penetrating eyes. +Perhaps the glow was due to a thought that this schoolmaster, who owed +his notoriety in the sheeplands to a lucky blow, would fail, leaving +him far ahead on the deal. He tightened his girths and set his foot in +the stirrup, ready to mount and ride home; paused so, hand on the +saddle-horn, with a queer, half-puzzled, half-suspicious look in his +sheep-wise eyes. + +"Wasn't there something else that feller Jacob was workin' for besides +the interest in the stock?" he asked. + +"Seems to me like there was," Mackenzie returned, carelessly. "The +main thing I remember in the transaction was the stone he set up +between the old man and himself on the range. 'The Lord watch between +thee and me,' you know, it had on it. That's a mighty good motto yet +for a sheepherder to front around where his boss can read it. A man's +got to have somebody to keep an eye on a sheepman when his back's +turned, even today." + +Tim laughed, swung into the saddle, where he sat roving his eyes over +the range, and back to the little band of sheep that seemed only a +handful of dust in the unbounded pastures where they fed. The +hillsides were green in that favored section, greener than anywhere +Mackenzie had been in the sheeplands, the grass already long for the +lack of mouths to feed. Tim's face glowed at the sight. + +"This is the best grazin' this range has ever produced in my day," he +said, "too much of it here for that little band you're runnin'. I'll +send Dad over with three thousand more this week. You can camp +together--it'll save me a wagon, and he'll be company. How's Joan +gettin on with the learnin'?" + +"She's eating it up." + +"I was afraid it'd be that way," said Tim, gloomily; "you can't +discourage that girl." + +"She's too sincere and capable to be discouraged. I laid down my hand +long ago." + +"And it's a pity to ruin a good sheepwoman with learnin'," Tim said, +shaking his head with the sadness of it. + +Tim rode away, leaving Mackenzie to his reflections as he watched his +boss' broad back grow smaller from hill to hill. The sheepherder +smiled as he recalled Tim's puzzled inquiry on the other consideration +of Jacob's contract with the slippery Laban. + +_What is this thou hast done unto me? Did not I serve with thee for +Rachel? Wherefore then hast thou beguiled me?_ + +"Tim would do it, too," Mackenzie said, nodding his grave head; "he'd +work off the wrong girl on a man as sure as he had two." + +It was queer, the way Tim had thought, at the last minute, of the +"something else" Jacob had worked for; queer, the way he had turned, +his foot up in the stirrup, that puzzled, suspicious expression in his +mild, shrewd face. Even if he should remember on the way home, or get +out his Bible on his arrival and look the story up, there would be +nothing of a parallel between the case of Jacob and that of John +Mackenzie to worry his sheepman's head. For though Jacob served his +seven years for Rachel, which "seemed to him but a few days, for the +love he had to her," he, John Mackenzie, was not serving Tim Sullivan +for Joan. + +"Nothing to that!" said he, but smiling, a dream in his eyes, over the +thought of what might have been a parallel case with Jacob's, here in +the sheeplands of the western world. + +Tim was scarcely out of sight when a man came riding over the hills +from the opposite direction. Mackenzie sighted him afar off, watching +him as each hill lifted him to a plainer view. He was a stranger, and +a man unsparing of his horse, pushing it uphill and down with +unaltered speed. He rode as if the object of his journey lay a long +distance ahead, and his time for reaching it was short. + +Mackenzie wondered if the fellow had stolen the horse, having it more +than half in mind to challenge his passage until he could give an +account of his haste, when he saw that the rider had no intention of +going by without speech. As he mounted the crest of the hill above the +flock, he swung straight for the spot where Mackenzie stood. + +The stranger drew up with a short grunt of greeting, turning his gaze +over the range as if in search of strayed stock. He was a short, spare +man, a frowning cast in his eyes, a face darkly handsome, but +unsympathetic as a cougar's. He looked down at Mackenzie presently, as +if he had put aside the recognition of his presence as a secondary +matter, a cold insolence in his challenging, sneering eyes. + +"What are you doing over here east of Horsethief?" he inquired, +bending his black brows in a frown, his small mustache twitching in +catlike threat of a snarl. + +"I'm grazing that little band of sheep you see down yonder," Mackenzie +returned, evenly, running his eyes over the fellow's gear. + +This was rather remarkable for a land out of which strife and +contention, murder and sudden death were believed to have passed long +ago. The man wore two revolvers, slung about his slender frame on a +broad belt looped around for cartridges. These loops were empty, but +the weight of the weapons themselves sagged the belt far down on the +wearer's hips. His leather cuffs were garnitured with silver stars in +the Mexican style; he wore a red stone in his black necktie, which was +tied with care, the flowing ends of it tucked into the bosom of his +dark-gray flannel shirt. + +"If you're tryin' to be funny, cut it out; I'm not a funny man," he +said. "I asked you what you're doing over here east of Horsethief +Cañon?" + +"I don't know that it's any of your business where I run my sheep," +Mackenzie told him, resentful of the man's insolence. + +"Tim Sullivan knows this is our winter grazing land, and this grass is +in reserve. If he didn't tell you it was because he wanted to run you +into trouble, I guess. You'll have to get them sheep out of here, and +do it right now." + +The stranger left it to Mackenzie's imagination to fix his identity, +not bending to reveal his name. Hector Hall, Mackenzie knew him to be, +on account of his pistols, on account of the cold meanness of his eyes +which Dad Frazer had described as holding such a throat-cutting look. +But armed as he was, severe and flash-tempered as he seemed, Mackenzie +was not in any sort of a flurry to give ground before him. He looked +up at him coolly, felt in his pocket for his pipe, filled it with +deliberation, and smoked. + +"Have you got a lease on this land?" he asked. + +"I carry my papers right here," Hall replied, touching his belt. + +Mackenzie looked about the range as if considering which way to go. +Then, turning again to Hall: + +"I don't know any bounds but the horizon when I'm grazing on +government land that's as much mine as the next man's. I don't like to +refuse a neighbor a request, but my sheep are going to stay right +here." + +Hall leaned over a little, putting out his hand in a warning gesture, +drawing his dark brows in a scowl. + +"Your head's swelled, young feller," he said, "on account of that +lucky thump you landed on Swan Carlson. You've got about as much +chance with that man as you have with a grizzly bear, and you've got +less chance with me. You've got till this time tomorrow to be six +miles west of here with that band of sheep." + +Hall rode off with that word, leaving a pretty good impression that he +meant it, and that it was final. Mackenzie hadn't a doubt that he +would come back to see how well the mandate had been obeyed next day. + +If there was anything to Hall's claim on that territory, by agreement +or right of priority which sheepmen were supposed to respect between +themselves, Tim Sullivan knew it, Mackenzie reflected. For a month +past Tim had been sending him eastward every time the wagon was moved, +a scheme to widen the distance between him and Joan and make it an +obstacle in her road, he believed at the time. Now it began to show +another purpose. Perhaps this was the winter pasture claimed by the +Hall brothers, and Tim had sent him in where he was afraid to come +himself. + +It seemed a foolish thing to squabble over a piece of grazing land +where all the world lay out of doors, but Hector Hall's way of coming +up to it was unpleasant. It was decidedly offensive, bullying, +oppressive. If he should give way before it he'd just as well leave +the range, Mackenzie knew; his force would be spent there, his day +closed before it had fairly begun. If he designed seriously to remain +there and become a flockmaster, and that he intended to do, with all +the sincerity in him, he'd have to meet Hall's bluff with a stronger +one, and stand his ground, whether right or wrong. If wrong, a +gentleman's adjustment could be made, his honor saved. + +So deciding, he settled that matter, and put it out of his head until +its hour. There was something more pleasant to cogitate--the parallel +of Jacob and Laban, Tim Sullivan and himself. It was strange how the +craft of Laban had come down to Tim Sullivan across that mighty flight +of time. It would serve Tim the right turn, in truth, if something +should come of it between him and Joan. He smiled in anticipatory +pleasure at Tim's discomfiture and surprise. + +But that was not in store for him, he sighed. Joan would shake her +wings out in a little while, and fly away, leaving him there, a dusty +sheepman, among the husks of his dream. Still, a man might dream on a +sunny afternoon. There was no interdiction against it; Hector Hall, +with his big guns, could not ride in and order a man off that domain. +A shepherd had the ancient privilege of dreams; he might drink himself +drunk on them, insane on them in the end, as so many of them were said +to do in that land of lonesomeness, where there was scarcely an echo +to give a man back his own faint voice in mockery of his solitude. + +Evening, with the sheep homing to the bedding-ground, brought +reflections of a different hue. Since the raid on his flock Mackenzie +had given up his bunk in the wagon for a bed under a bush on the +hillside nearer the sheep. Night after night he lay with the rifle at +his hand, waiting the return of the grisly monster who had spent his +fury on the innocent simpletons in his care. + +Whether it was Swan Carlson, with the strength of his great arms, +driven to madness by the blow he had received, or whether it was +another whom the vast solitudes of that country had unhinged, +Mackenzie did not know. But that it was man, he had no doubt. + +Dad Frazer had gone away unconvinced, unshaken in his belief that it +was a grizzly. Tim Sullivan had come over with the same opinion, no +word of doubt in his mouth. But Mackenzie knew that when he should +meet that wild night-prowler he would face a thing more savage than a +bear, a thing as terrible to grapple with as the saber-tooth whose +bones lay deep under the hills of that vast pasture-land. + + + + +CHAPTER X + +WILD RIDERS OF THE RANGE + + +Joan missed her lessons for three days running, a lapse so unusual as +to cause Mackenzie the liveliest concern. He feared that the mad +creature who spent his fury tearing sheep limb from limb might have +visited her camp, and that she had fallen into his bloody hands. + +A matter of eight or nine miles lay between their camps; Mackenzie had +no horse to cover it. More than once he was on the point of leaving +the sheep to shift for themselves and striking out on foot; many times +he walked a mile or more in that direction, to mount the highest hill +he could discover, and stand long, sweeping the blue distance with +troubled eyes. Yet in the end he could not go. Whatever was wrong, he +could not set right at that late hour, he reasoned; to leave the sheep +would be to throw open the gates of their defense to dangers always +ready to descend upon them. The sheep were in his care; Joan was not. +That was what Tim Sullivan would say, in his hard way of holding a man +to his bargain and his task. + +Joan came late in the afternoon, rising the nearest hilltop with a +suddenness quite startling, waving a cheerful greeting as if to assure +him from a distance that all was well. She stood looking at him in +amazement when she flipped to the ground like a bird, her face growing +white, her eyes big. + +"Well, what in the world! Where did you get those guns?" she said. + +"A fellow left them here the other day." + +"A fellow?" coming nearer, looking sharply at the belt. "That's Hector +Hall's belt--I've seen him wearing it! There his initials are, worked +out in silver tacks! Where did you get it?" + +"Mr. Hall left it here. What kept you, Joan? I've been worried about +you." + +"Hector Hall _left_ it here? With both of his guns?" + +"Yes, he left the guns with it. What was the matter, Joan?" + +Joan looked him up and down, her face a study between admiration and +fear. + +"Left his guns! Well, what did you do with _him_?" + +"I suppose he went home, Joan. Did anything happen over your way to +keep you?" + +"Charley was sick," she said, shortly, abstractedly, drowned in her +wonder of the thing he told with his native reluctance when questioned +on his own exploits. "Did you have a fight with Hector?" + +"Is he all right now?" + +"Charley's all right; he ate too many wild gooseberries. Did you have +a fight with Hector Hall, Mr. Mackenzie?" + +She came near him as she questioned him, her great, soft eyes pleading +in fear, and laid her hand on his shoulder as if to hold him against +any further evasion. He smiled a little, in his stingy way of doing +it, taking her hand to allay her tumult of distress. + +"Not much of a fight, Joan. Mr. Hall came over here to drive me off +of this range, and I had to take his guns away from him to keep him +from hurting me. That's all there was to it." + +"All there was to it!" said Joan. "Why, he's one of the meanest men +that ever lived! He'll never rest till he kills you. I wish you'd let +him have the range." + +"Is it his?" + +"No, it belongs to us; we've got a lease on it from the government, +and pay rent for it every year. Swan Carlson and the Hall boys have +bluffed us out of it for the past three summers and run their sheep +over here in the winter-time. I always wanted to fight for it, but dad +let them have it for the sake of peace. I guess it was the best way, +after all." + +"As long as I was right, my last worry is gone, Joan. You're not on +the contested territory, are you?" + +"No; they lay claim as far as Horsethief Cañon, but they'd just as +well claim all our lease--they've got just as much right to it." + +"That ends the matter, then--as far as I'm concerned." + +"I wonder what kind of an excuse Hector made when he went home without +his guns!" she speculated, looking off over the hills in the direction +of the Hall brothers' ranch. + +"Maybe he's not accountable to anybody, and doesn't have to explain." + +"I guess that's right," Joan said, still wandering in her gaze. + +Below them the flock was spread, the dogs on its flanks. Mackenzie +pointed to the sun. + +"We'll have to get to work; you'll be starting back in an hour." + +But there was no work in Joan that day, nothing but troubled +speculation on what form Hector Hall's revenge would take, and when +the stealthy blow of his resentment would fall. Try as he would, +Mackenzie could not fasten her mind upon the books. She would begin +with a brave resolution, only to wander away, the book closed +presently upon her thumb, her eyes searching the hazy hills where +trouble lay out of sight. At last she gave it up, with a little +catching sob, tears in her honest eyes. + +"They'll kill you--I know they will!" she said. + +"I don't think they will," he returned, abstractedly, "but even if +they do, Rachel, there's nobody to grieve." + +"Rachel? My name isn't Rachel," said Joan, a little hurt. For it was +not in flippancy or banter that he had called her out of her name; his +eyes were not within a hundred leagues of that place, his heart away +with them, it seemed, when he spoke. + +He turned to her, a color of embarrassment in his brown face. + +"I was thinking of another story, Joan." + +"Of another girl," she said, perhaps a trifle resentfully. At least +Mackenzie thought he read a resentful note in the quick rejoinder, a +resentful flash of color in her cheek. + +"Yes, but a mighty old girl, Joan," he confessed, smiling with a +feeling of lightness around his heart. + +"Somebody you used to know?" face turned away, voice light in a +careless, artificial note. + +"She was a sheepman's daughter," he said. + +"Did you know her down at Jasper?" + +"No, I never knew her at all, Rach--Joan. That was a long, long time +ago." + +Joan brightened at this news. She ceased denying him her face, even +smiled a little, seeming to forget Hector Hall and his pending +vengeance. + +"Well, what about her?" she asked. + +He told her which Rachel he had in mind, but Joan only shook her head +and looked troubled. + +"I never read the Bible; we haven't even got one." + +He told her the story, beginning with Jacob's setting out, and his +coming to the well with the great stone at its mouth which the maidens +could not roll away. + +"So Jacob rolled the stone away and watered Rachel's sheep," he said, +pausing with that much of it, looking off down the draw between the +hills in a mind-wandering way. Joan touched his arm, impatient with +such disjointed narrative. + +"What did he do then?" + +"Why, he kissed her." + +"I think he was kind of fresh," said Joan. But she laughed a little, +blushing rosily, a bright light in her eyes. "Tell me the rest of it, +John." + +Mackenzie went on with the ancient pastoral tale of love. Joan was +indignant when she heard how Laban gave Jacob the weak-eyed girl for a +wife in place of his beloved Rachel, for whom he had worked the seven +years. + +"Jake must have been a bright one!" said she. "How could the old man +put one over on him like that?" + +"You'll have to read the story," said Mackenzie. "It's sundown; don't +you think you'd better be going back to camp, Joan?" + +But Joan was in no haste to leave. She walked with him as he worked +the sheep to their bedding-ground, her bridle-rein over her arm. She +could get back to camp before dark, she said; Charley would not be +worried. + +Joan could not have said as much for herself. Her eyes were pools of +trouble, her face was anxious and strained. She went silently beside +Mackenzie while the dogs worked the sheep along with more than human +patience, almost human intelligence. Frequently she looked into his +face with a plea dumbly eloquent, but did not again put her fear for +him into words. Only when she stood beside her horse near the +sheep-wagon, ready to mount and leave him to his solitary supper, she +spoke of Hector Hall's revolvers, which Mackenzie had unstrapped and +put aside. + +"What are you going to do with them, John?" + +She had fallen into the use of that familiar address only that day, +moved by the tenderness of the old tale he had told her, perhaps; +drawn nearer to him by the discovery of a gentle sentiment in him +which she had not known before. He heard it with a warm uplifting of +the heart, all without reason, he knew, for it was the range way to be +familiar on a shorter acquaintance than theirs. + +"I'm going to give them back to him," he said. "I've been carrying +them around ever since he left them in the hope he'd get ashamed of +himself and come for them." + +Joan started at the sound of galloping hoofs, which rose suddenly out +of complete silence as the riders mounted the crest behind them. + +"I guess he's coming for them now," she said. + +There were two riders coming down the slope toward them at a pace +altogether reckless. Mackenzie saw at a glance that neither of them +was Hector Hall, but one a woman, her loose garments flapping as she +rode. + +"It's Swan Carlson and his wife!" he said, unable to cover his +amazement at the sight. + +"What do you suppose they're doing over here?" Joan drew a little +nearer as she spoke, her horse shifting to keep by her side. + +"No telling. Look how that woman rides!" + +There was enough in her wild bearing to excite admiration and wonder, +even in one who had not seen her under conditions which promised +little of such development. She came on at Swan's side, leaning +forward a little, as light and sure in the saddle as any cowboy on the +range. They bore down toward the sheep-wagon as if they had no +intention of halting, jerking their horses up in Indian fashion a few +feet from where Mackenzie and Joan stood. The animals slid on stiff +legs, hoofs plowing the soft ground, raising a cloud of dust which +dimmed the riders momentarily. + +Neither of the abrupt visitors spoke. They sat silently staring, not a +rod between them and the two on foot, the woman as unfriendly of face +as the man. And Swan Carlson had not improved in this feature since +Mackenzie parted from him in violence a few weeks before. His red hair +was shorter now, his drooping mustache longer, the points of it +reaching two inches below his chin. He was gaunt of cheek, hollow of +eyes, like a man who had gone hungry or suffered a sorrow that ate +away his heart. + +His wife had improved somewhat in outward appearance. Her face had +filled, the pathetic uncertainty had gone from her eyes. She was not +uncomely as she sat astride her good bay horse, her divided skirt of +corduroy wide on its flanks, a man's gray shirt laced over her bosom, +the collar open, showing the fairness of her neck. Her abundant hair +was braided, and wound closely about her head like a cap. Freedom had +made a strange alteration in her. It seemed, indeed, as if Swan +Carlson had breathed into her the breath of his own wild soul, making +her over according to the desire of his heart. + +Mackenzie stepped out in invitation for Swan to state the occasion of +his boisterous visit, and stood waiting in silence while the two +strange creatures continued to stare. Swan lifted his hand in a manner +of salutation, no change either of friendship or animosity in his +lean, strong face. + +"You got a woman, huh? Well, how'll you trade?" + +Swan glanced from his wife to Joan as he spoke. If there was any +recollection in him of the hard usage he had received at Mackenzie's +hands, it did not seem to be bitter. + +"Ride on," said Mackenzie. + +Mrs. Carlson urged her horse with sudden start close to where Joan +stood, leaned far over her saddle and peered into the girl's face. +Joan, affronted by the savage impertinence, met her eyes defiantly, +not giving an inch before the unexpected charge. + +In that pose of defiant challenge Swan Carlson's woman peered into the +face of the girl whose freshness and beauty had drawn the wild banter +from her man's bold lips. Then, a sudden sweep of passion in her face, +she lifted her rawhide quirt and struck Joan a bitter blow across the +shoulder and neck. Mackenzie sprang between them, but Mrs. Carlson, +her defiance passed in that one blow, did not follow it up. Swan +opened wide his great mouth and pealed out his roaring laughter, not a +line of mirth softening in his face, not a gleam of it in his eyes. It +was a sound without a note to express human warmth, or human +satisfaction. + +Joan flamed up like a match in oil. She dropped her bridle-reins, +springing back a quick step, turning her eyes about for some weapon by +which she might retaliate. Hector Hall's pistols hung on the end-gate +of the sheep-wagon not more than twenty feet away. It seemed that Joan +covered the distance in a bound, snatched one of the guns and fired. +Her own horse stood between her and the wild range woman, which +perhaps accounted for her miss. Mackenzie was holding her wrist before +she could shoot again. + +Swan let out another roar of heartless laughter, and together with his +woman galloped down the hill. Ahead of them the sheep were assembled, +packed close in their huddling way of seeking comfort and courage in +numbers, just beginning to compose themselves for the night. Straight +into the flock Swan Carlson and his woman rode, trampling such as +could not rise and leap aside, crushing such lambs as were not nimble +enough or wise enough to run. + +"I'll kill her, I'll kill her!" said Joan. + +She panted, half crying, struggling to free her arm that she might +fire again. + +"All right, let 'em have it!" Mackenzie said, seeing the havoc among +the sheep. + +Swan and his woman rode like a whirlwind through the flock, the dogs +after them with sharp cries, the frightened bleating of the lambs, the +beating of two thousand hoofs, adding to the confusion of what had +been a peaceful pastoral scene but a few minutes before. Joan cut +loose at the disturbers of this peace, emptying the revolver quickly, +but without effect. + +Half way through the herd Swan leaned down and caught a lamb by the +leg, swung it around his head as lightly as a man would wave his hat, +and rode on with it in savage triumph. Mackenzie snatched the rifle +from the wagon. His shot came so close to Swan that he dropped the +lamb. The woman fell behind Swan, interposing herself as a shield, and +in this formation they rode on, sweeping down the narrow thread of +green valley, galloping wildly away into the sanctuary of the hills. + +Mackenzie stood, gun half lifted, and watched them go without another +shot, afraid to risk it lest he hit the woman. He turned to Joan, who +stood by, white with anger, the empty revolver in her hand. + +"Are you hurt, Joan?" he asked, in foolish weakness, knowing very well +that she was. + +"No, she didn't hurt me--but I'll kill her for it!" said Joan. + +She was trembling; her face was bloodless in the cold anger that +shook her. There was a red welt on her neck, purple-marked on its +ridge where the rawhide had almost cut her tender skin. + +"Swan Carlson has pulled his woman down to his savage level at last," +Mackenzie said. + +"She's worse than he is; she's a range wolf!" + +"I believe she is. But it always happens that way when a person gets +to going." + +"With those two and the Hall boys you'll not have a ghost of a chance +to hold this range, John. You'd better let me help you begin working +the sheep over toward my camp tonight." + +"No, I'm going to stay here." + +"Swan and that woman just rode through here to get the lay of +your camp. More than likely they'll come over and burn you out +tonight--pour coal oil on the wagon and set it afire." + +"Let 'em; I'll not be in it." + +"They'll worry you night and day, kill your sheep, maybe kill you, if +you don't come away. It isn't worth it; dad was right about it. For +the sake of peace, let them have it, John." + +Mackenzie stood in silence, looking the way Swan and his woman had +gone, the gun held as if ready to lift and fire at the showing of a +hat-crown over the next hill. He seemed to be considering the +situation. Joan studied his face with eager hopefulness, bending +forward a bit to see better in the failing light. + +"They've got to be shown that a master has come to the sheep country," +he said, in low voice, as if to himself. "I'll stay and prove it to +all of them at once." + +Joan knew there was no use to argue or appeal. She dropped the matter +there, and Mackenzie put the gun away. + +"I'm sorry I haven't anything to put on it," he said, looking at the +red welt on her neck. + +"I'm sorry I missed her," said Joan. + +"It isn't so much the sting of a blow, I know," he comforted, "as the +hurt of the insult. Never mind it, Joan; she's a vicious, wild woman, +jealous because Swam took notice of you." + +"It was a great compliment!" + +"I wish I had some balm for it that would cure it in a second, and +take away the memory of the way it was done," said he, very softly. + +"I'll kill her," flared Joan. + +"I don't like to hear you say that, Joan," he chided, and reached and +laid his hand consolingly upon the burning mark. + +Joan caught her breath as if he had touched her skin with ice. He +withdrew his hand quickly, blaming himself for the rudeness of his +rough hand. + +"You didn't hurt me, John," she said, her eyes downcast, the color of +warm blood playing over her face. + +"I might have," he blamed himself, in such seriousness as if it were +the gravest matter he had risked, and not the mere touching of a +blood-red welt upon a simple maiden's neck. + +"I'll be over early in the morning to see if you're all right," she +told him as she turned again to her horse. + +"If you can come, even to show yourself on the hill," said he. + +"Show myself? Why, a person would think you were worrying about me." + +"I am, Joan. I wish you would give up herding sheep, let the share and +the prospect and all of it go, and have your father put a herder in to +run that band for you." + +"They'll not hurt me; as mean as they are they'll not fight a woman. +Anyway, I'm not over the deadline." + +"There's something prowling this range that doesn't respect lines, +Joan." + +"You mean the grizzly?" + +"Yes, the grizzly that rides a horse." + +"Dad Frazer thinks you were mistaken on that, John." + +"I know. Dad Frazer thinks I'm a better schoolteacher than I'll ever +be a sheepman, I guess. But I've met bears enough that I don't have to +imagine them. Keep your gun close by you tonight, and every night." + +"I will," she promised, moved by the earnestness of his appeal. + +Dusk was thickening into darkness over the sheeplands; the dogs were +driving the straggling sheep back to the bedding-ground, where many of +them already lay in contentment, quickly over the flurry of Swan +Carlson's passing. Joan stood at her stirrup, her face lifted to the +heavens, and it was white as an evening primrose under the shadow of +her hat. She lingered as if there remained something to say or be +said, something to give or to take, before leaving her friend and +teacher alone to face the dangers of the night. Perhaps she thought of +Rachel, and the kiss her kinsman gave her when he rolled the stone +from the well's mouth, and lifted up his voice and wept. + +Mackenzie stood a little apart, thinking his own swift-running +thoughts, quickening under the leap of his own eager blood. But no +matter for Jacob's precedent, Mackenzie had no excuse of even distant +relationship to offer for such familiarity. The desire was urging, but +the justification was not at hand. So Joan rode away unkissed, and +perhaps wondering why. + + + + +CHAPTER XI + +HECTOR HALL SETS A BEACON + + +Mackenzie sat a long time on his hill that night, his ear turned +to the wind, smoking his pipe and thinking the situation over +while listening for the first sound of commotion among the sheep. +He had pledged himself to Tim and Joan that he would not quit +the sheep country without proving that he had in him the mettle +of a flockmaster. Hector Hall had been given to understand the +same thing. In fact, Mackenzie thought, it looked as if he had +been running with his eyes shut, making boastful pledges. + +He might have to hedge on some of them, or put them through at a cost +far beyond the profit. It came that way to a boaster of his intentions +sometimes, especially so when a man spoke too quickly and assumed too +much. Here he was standing face to a fight that did not appear to +promise much more glory in the winning than in the running away. + +There had been peace in that part of the sheep country a long time; +Mackenzie had come to Jasper, even, long after the feuds between the +flockmasters and cattlemen had worn themselves out save for an +outbreak of little consequence in the far places now and then. But the +peace of this place had been a coward's peace, paid for in money and +humiliation. A thing like that was not to be expected of Tim Sullivan, +although from a business reasoning he doubtless was right about it. + +It was Mackenzie's work now to clean up the camp of the Hall brothers, +along with Swan Carlson, and put an end to their bullying and edging +over on Tim Sullivan's range, or take up his pack and trudge out of +the sheep country as he had come. By staying there and fighting for +Tim Sullivan's interests he might arrive in time at a dusty +consequence, his fame, measured in thousands of sheep, reaching even +to Jasper and Cheyenne, and perhaps to the stock-yards commission +offices in Omaha and Chicago. + +"John Mackenzie, worth twenty thousand, or fifty thousand sheep." + +That would be the way they would know him; that would be the measure +of his fame. By what sacrifice, through what adventure, how much +striving and hard living he might come to the fame of twenty thousand +sheep, no man would know or care. There in the dusty silences of that +gray-green land he would bury the man and the soul that reached upward +in him with pleasant ambitions, to become a creature over sheep. Just +a step higher than the sheep themselves, wind-buffeted, cold-cursed, +seared and blistered and hardened like a callous through which the +urging call of a man's duty among men could pierce no more. + +But it had its compensations, on the other hand. There must be a vast +satisfaction in looking back over the small triumphs won against +tremendous forces, the successful contest with wild winter storm, +ravaging disease, night-prowling beasts. Nature was the big force +arrayed against a flockmaster, and it was unkind and menacing seven +months out of the year. That must be the secret of a flockmaster's +satisfaction with himself and his lot, Mackenzie thought; he could +count himself a fit companion for the old gods, if he knew anything +about them, after his victory over every wild force that could be bent +against him among those unsheltered hills. + +The Hall brothers were a small pest to be stamped out and forgotten in +the prosperity of multiplying flocks. As for Swan Carlson, poor +savage, there might be some way of reaching him without further +violence between them. Wild and unfeeling as he seemed, there must be +a sense of justice in him, reading him by his stern, immobile face. + +As he sat and weighed the argument for and against the sheep business, +the calling of flockmaster began to take on the color of romantic +attraction which had not been apparent to him before. In his way, +every flockmaster was a hero, inflexible against the unreckoned forces +which rose continually to discourage him. This was true, as he long +had realized, of a man who plants in the soil, risking the large part +of his capital of labor year by year. But the sheepman's risks were +greater, his courage immensely superior, to that of the tiller of the +soil. One storm might take his flock down to the last head, leaving +him nothing to start on again but his courage and his hope. + +It appeared to Mackenzie to be the calling of a proper man. A +flockmaster need not be a slave to the range, as most of them were. He +might sit in his office, as a few of them did, and do the thing like a +gentleman. There were possibilities of dignity in it heretofore +overlooked; Joan would think better of it if she could see it done +that way. Surely, it was a business that called for a fight to build +and a fight to hold, but it was the calling of a proper man. + +Mackenzie was immensely cheered by his reasoning the sheep business +into the romantic and heroic class. Here were allurements of which he +had not dreamed, to be equaled only by the calling of the sea, and not +by any other pursuit on land at all. A man who appreciated the subtle +shadings of life could draw a great deal of enjoyment and self-pride +out of the business of flockmaster. It was one of the most ancient +pursuits of man. Abraham was a flockmaster; maybe Adam. + +But for all of the new comfort he had found in the calling he had +adopted, Mackenzie was plagued by a restless, broken sleep when he +composed himself among the hillside shrubs above the sheep. A vague +sense of something impending held him from rest. It was present over +his senses like a veil of drifting smoke through his shallow sleep. +Twice he moved his bed, with the caution of some haunted beast; many +times he started in his sleep, clutching like a falling man, to sit up +alert and instantly awake. + +There was something in the very tension of the night-silence that +warned him to be on the watch. It was not until long after midnight +that he relaxed his straining, uneasy vigil, and stretched himself to +unvexed sleep. He could steal an hour or two from the sheep in the +early morning, he told himself, as he felt the sweet restfulness of +slumber sweeping over him; the helpless creatures would remain on the +bedding-ground long after sunrise if he did not wake, waiting for him +to come and set them about the great business of their lives. They +hadn't sense enough to range out and feed themselves without the +direction of man's guiding hand. + +Mackenzie had dipped but a little way into his refreshing rest when +the alarmed barking of his dogs woke him with such sudden wrench that +it ached. He sat up, senses drenched in sleep for a struggling moment, +groping for his rifle. The dogs went charging up the slope toward the +wagon, the canvas top of which he could see indistinctly on the +hillside through the dark. + +As Mackenzie came to his feet, fully awake and on edge, the dogs +mouthed their cries as if they closed in on the disturber of the night +at close quarters. Mackenzie heard blows, a yelp from a disabled dog, +and retreat toward him of those that remained unhurt. He fired a shot, +aiming high, running toward the wagon. + +Again the dogs charged, two of them, only, out of the three, and again +there was the sound of thick, rapid blows. One dog came back to its +master, pressing against his legs for courage. Mackenzie shouted, +hoping to draw the intruder into revealing himself, not wanting the +blood of even a rascal such as the night-prowler on his hands through +a chance shot into the dark. There was no answer, no sound from the +deep blackness that pressed like troubled waters close to the ground. + +The dog clung near to Mackenzie's side, his growling deep in his +throat. Mackenzie could feel the beast tremble as it pressed against +him, and bent to caress it and give it confidence. At his reassuring +touch the beast bounded forward to the charge again, only to come +yelping back, and continue on down the hill toward the flock. + +Mackenzie fired again, dodging quickly behind a clump of bushes after +the flash of his gun. As he crouched there, peering and straining +ahead into the dark, strong hands laid hold of him, and tore his rifle +away from him and flung him to the ground. One came running from the +wagon, low words passed between the man who held Mackenzie pinned to +the ground, knees astride him, his hands doubled back against his chin +in a grip that was like fetters. This one who arrived in haste groped +around until he found Mackenzie's rifle. + +"Let him up," he said. + +Mackenzie stood, his captor twisting his arms behind him with such +silent ease that it was ominous of what might be expected should the +sheepherder set up a struggle to break free. + +"Bud, I've come over after my guns," said Hector Hall, speaking close +to Mackenzie's ear. + +"They're up at the wagon," Mackenzie told him, with rather an injured +air. "You didn't need to make all this trouble about it; I was keeping +them for you." + +"Go on up and get 'em," Hall commanded, prodding Mackenzie in the ribs +with the barrel of his own gun. + +The one who held Mackenzie said nothing, but walked behind him, rather +shoved him ahead, hands twisted in painful rigidity behind his back, +pushing him along as if his weight amounted to no more than a child's. +At the wagon Hall fell in beside Mackenzie, the barrel of a gun again +at his side. + +"Let him go," he said. And to Mackenzie: "Don't try to throw any +tricks on me, bud, but waltz around and get me them guns." + +"They're hanging on the end of the coupling-pole; get them yourself," +Mackenzie returned, resentful of this treatment, humiliated to such +depths by this disgrace that had overtaken him that he cared little +for the moment whether he should live or die. + +Hall spoke a low, mumbled, unintelligible word to the one who stood +behind Mackenzie, and another gun pressed coldly against the back of +the apprentice sheepman's neck. Hall went to the end of the wagon, +found his pistols, struck a match to inspect them. In the light of the +expiring match at his feet Mackenzie could see the ex-cattleman +buckling on the guns. + +"Bud, you've been actin' kind of rash around here," Hall said, in +insolent satisfaction with the turn of events. "You had your lucky day +with me, like you had with Swan Carlson, but I gave you a sneak's +chance to leave the country while the goin' was good. If you ever +leave it now the wind'll blow you out. Back him up to that wagon +wheel!" + +Mackenzie was at the end of his tractable yielding to commands, seeing +dimly what lay before him. He lashed out in fury at the man who +pressed the weapon to his neck, twisting round in a sweep of passion +that made the night seem to burst in a rain of fire, careless of what +immediate danger he ran. The fellow fired as Mackenzie swung round, +the flash of the flame hot on his neck. + +"Don't shoot him, you fool!" Hector Hall interposed, his voice a growl +between his teeth. + +Mackenzie's quick blows seemed to fall impotently on the body of the +man who now grappled with him, face to face, Hector Hall throwing +himself into the tangle from the rear. Mackenzie, seeing his assault +shaping for a speedy end in his own defeat, now attempted to break +away and seek shelter in the dark among the bushes. He wrenched free +for a moment, ducked, ran, only to come down in a few yards with +Hector Hall on his back like a catamount. + +Fighting every inch of the way, Mackenzie was dragged back to the +wagon, where his captors backed him against one of the hind wheels and +bound him, his arms outstretched across the spokes in the manner of a +man crucified. + +They had used Mackenzie illy in that fight to get him back to the +wagon; his face was bleeding, a blow in the mouth had puffed his lips. +His hat was gone, his shirt torn open on his bosom, but a wild rage +throbbed in him which lifted him above the thought of consequences as +he strained at the ropes which held his arms. + +They left his feet free, as if to mock him with half liberty in the +ordeal they had set for him to face. One mounted the front wagon wheel +near Mackenzie, and the light of slow-coming dawn on the sky beyond +him showed his hand uplifted as if he sprinkled something over the +wagon sheet. The smell of kerosene spread through the still air; a +match crackled on the wagon tire. A flash, a sudden springing of +flame, a roar, and the canvas was enveloped in fire. + +Mackenzie leaned against his bonds, straining away from the sudden +heat, the fast-running fire eating the canvas from the bows, the bunk +within, and all the furnishings and supplies, on fire. There seemed to +be no wind, a merciful circumstance, for a whip of the high-striving +flames would have wrapped him, stifling out his life in a moment. + +Hall and the other man, who had striven with Mackenzie in such +powerful silence, had drawn away from the fire beyond his sight to +enjoy the thing they had done. Mackenzie, turning his fearful gaze +over his shoulder, calculated his life in seconds. The fire was at his +back, his hair was crinkling in the heat of it, a little moving breath +of wind to fill the sudden vacuum drew a tongue of blaze with sharp +threat against his cheek. + +In a moment the oil-drenched canvas would be gone, the flaming +contents of the wagon, the woodwork of box and running gears left to +burn more slowly, and his flesh and bones must mingle ashes with the +ashes, to be blown on the wind, as Hector Hall had so grimly +prophesied. What a pitiful, poor, useless ending of all his +calculations and plans! + +A shot at the top of the hill behind the wagon, a rush of galloping +hoofs; another shot, and another. Below him Hall and his comrade rode +away, floundering in haste through the sleeping flock, the one poor +dog left out of Mackenzie's three tearing after them, venting his +impotent defiance in sharp yelps of the chase. + +Joan. Mackenzie knew it was Joan before she came riding into the +firelight, throwing herself from the horse before it stopped. Through +the pain of his despair--above the rebellious resentment of the thing +that fate had played upon him this bitter gray morning; above the +anguish of his hopeless moment, the poignant striving of his tortured +soul to meet the end with resolution and calm defiance worthy a +man--he had expected Joan. + +Why, based on what reason, he could not have told, then nor in the +years that came afterward. But always the thought of Joan coming to +him like the wings of light out of the east. + +And so Joan had come, as he strained on his bound arms to draw his +face a few inches farther from the fire, as he stifled in the smoke +and heavy gases of the burning oil; Joan had come, and her hand was +cool on his forehead, her voice was tender in his ear, and she was +leading him into the blessed free air, the east widening in a bar of +light like a waking eye. + +Joan was panting, the knife that had cut his bonds still open in her +hand. They stood face to face, a little space between them, her great +eyes pouring their terrified sympathy into his soul. Neither spoke, a +daze over them, a numbness on their tongues, the dull shock of death's +close passing bewildering and deep. + +Mackenzie breathed deeply, his brain clearing out of its racing whirl, +and became conscious of Joan's hand grasping his. Behind them the +ammunition in the burning wagon began to explode, and Joan, shuddering +as with cold, covered her white face with her hands and sobbed aloud. + +Mackenzie touched her shoulder. + +"Joan! O Joan, Joan!" he said. + +Joan, shivering, her shoulders lifted as if to fend against a winter +blast, only cried the harder into her hands. He stood with hand +touching her shoulder lightly, the quiver of her body shaking him to +the heart. But no matter how inviting the opening, a man could not +speak what rose in his heart to say, standing as he stood, a debtor in +such measure. To say what he would have said to Joan, he must stand +clear and towering in manliness, no taint of humiliation on his soul. + +Mackenzie groaned in spirit, and his words were a groan, as he said +again: + +"Joan! O Joan, Joan!" + +"I knew they'd come tonight--I couldn't sleep." + +"Thank God for your wakefulness!" said he. + +She was passing out of the reefs of terror, calming as a wind falls at +sunset. Mackenzie pressed her arm, drawing her away a little. + +"That ammunition--we'd better----" + +"Yes," said Joan, and went with him a little farther down the slope. + +Mackenzie put his hand to his face where the flames had licked it, and +to the back of his head where his scorched hair broke crisply under +his palm. Joan looked at him, the aging stamp of waking and worry in +her face, exclaiming pityingly when she saw his hurts. + +"It served me right; I stumbled into their hands like a blind kitten!" +he said, not sparing himself of scorn. + +"It's a cattleman's trick; many an older hand than you has gone that +way," she said. + +"But if I'd have waked and watched like you, Joan, they wouldn't have +got me. I started to watch, but I didn't keep it up like you. When I +should have been awake, I was sleeping like a sluggard." + +"The cowards!" said Joan. + +"I let one of them sneak up behind me, after they'd clubbed two of the +dogs to death, and grab me and get my gun! Great God! I deserve to be +burned!" + +"Hush!" she chided, fearfully. "Hush!" + +"One of them was Hector Hall--he came after his guns. If I'd been a +man, the shadow of a man, I'd made him swallow them the day I +took--the time he left them here." + +"Matt was with him," said Joan. "You couldn't do anything; no man +could do anything, against Matt Hall." + +"They handled me like a baby," said he, bitterly, "and I, and I, +wanting to be a sheepman! No wonder they think I'm a soft and simple +fool up here, that goes on the reputation of a lucky blow!" + +"There's a man on a horse," said Joan. "He's coming this way." + +The rider broke down the hillside as she spoke, riding near the +wreckage of the burning wagon, where he halted a moment, the strong +light of the fire on his face: Swan Carlson, hatless, his hair +streaming, his great mustache pendant beside his stony mouth. He came +on toward them at once. Joan laid her hand on her revolver. + +"You got a fire here," said Swan, stopping near them, leaning +curiously toward them as if he peered at them through smoke. + +"Yes," Mackenzie returned. + +"I seen it from over there," said Swan. "I come over to see if you +needed any help." + +"Thank you, not now. It's gone; nothing can be done." + +"I smelt coal oil," said Swan, throwing back his head, sniffing the +air like a buck. "Who done it?" + +"Some of your neighbors," said Mackenzie. + +"I knowed they would," Swan nodded. "Them fellers don't fight like me +and you, they don't stand up like a man. When I seen you take that +feller by the leg that day and upset him off of his horse and grab his +guns off of him, I knowed he'd burn you out." + +Joan, forgetting her fear and dislike of Swan Carlson in her interest +of what he revealed, drew a little nearer to him. + +"Were you around here that day, Swan?" she asked. + +"Yes, I saw him upset that feller, little bird," Swan said, leaning +again from his saddle, his long neck stretched to peer into her face. +"He's a good man, but he ain't as good a man as me." + +Swan was barefooted, just as he had leaped from his bunk in the +sheep-wagon to ride to the fire. There was a wild, high pride in his +cold, handsome face as he sat up in the saddle as if to show Joan his +mighty bulk, and he stretched out his long arms like an eagle on its +crag flexing its pinions in the morning sun. + +"Did he--did Hector Hall sling a gun on Mr. Mackenzie that time?" she +asked, pressing forward eagerly. + +"Never mind, Joan--let that go," said Mackenzie, putting his arm +before her to stay her, speaking hastily, as if to warn her back from +a danger. + +"He didn't have time to sling a gun on him," said Swan, great +satisfaction in his voice as he recalled the scene. "Your man he's +like a cat when he jumps for a feller, but he ain't got the muscle in +his back like me." + +"There's nobody in this country like you, Swan," said Joan, pleased +with him, friendly toward him, for his praise of the one he boldly +called her man. + +"No, I can roll 'em all," Swan said, as gravely as if he would be hung +on the testimony. "You ought to have me for your man; then you'd have +somebody no feller on this range would burn out." + +"You've got a wife, Swan," Joan said, with gentle reproof, but putting +the proposal from her as if she considered it a jest. + +"I'm tired of that one," Swan confessed, frankly. Then to Mackenzie: +"I'll fight you for her." He swung half way out of the saddle, as if +to come to the ground and start the contest on the moment, hung there, +looking Mackenzie in the face, the light of morning revealing the +marks of his recent battle. "Not now, you've had a fight already," +said Swan, settling back into the saddle. "But when you brace up, then +I'll fight you for her. What?" + +"Any time," Mackenzie told him, speaking easily, as if humoring the +whim of some irresponsible person. + +With a sudden start of his horse Swan rode close to Joan, Mackenzie +throwing himself between them, catching the bridle, hurling the animal +back. Swan did not take notice of the interference, only leaned far +over, stretching his long neck, his great mustaches like the tusks of +an old walrus, and strained a long look into Joan's face. Then he +whirled his horse and galloped away, not turning a glance behind. + +Joan watched him go, saying nothing for a little while. Then: + +"I think he's joking," she said. + +"I suppose he is," Mackenzie agreed, although he had many doubts. + +They turned to look at the wagon again, the popping of ammunition +having ceased. The woodwork was all on fire; soon it would be reduced +to bolts and tires. Joan's spirits seemed to have risen with the +broadening of day, in spite of Swan Carlson's visit and his bold jest, +if jest he meant it to be. She laughed as she looked at the sheep, +huddled below them in attitude of helpless fright. + +"Poor little fools!" she said. "Well, I must go back to Charley. Don't +tell dad I was over here, please, John. He wouldn't like it if he knew +I'd butted in this way--he's scared to death of the Halls." + +"I don't see how I'm to keep him from knowing it," Mackenzie said, +"and I don't see why he shouldn't know. He'd have been out a cheap +herder if it hadn't been for you." + +"No, you mustn't tell him, you mustn't let anybody know I was here, +John," she said, lifting her eyes to his in an appeal far stronger +than words. "It wouldn't do for dad--for anybody--to know I was here. +You don't need to say anything about them tying--doing--_that_." + +Joan shuddered again in that chilling, horrified way, turning from him +to hide what he believed he had read in her words and face before. + +It was not because she feared to have her father know she had come +riding to his rescue in the last hours of her troubled night; not +because she feared his censure or his anger, or wanted to conceal her +deed for reasons of modesty from anyone. Only to spare him the +humiliation of having his failure known, Mackenzie understood. That +was her purpose, and her sole purpose, in seeking his pledge to +secrecy. + +It would hurt him to have it go abroad that he had allowed them to +sneak into his camp, seize him, disarm him, bind him, and set the fire +that was to make ashes of him for the winds to blow away. It would do +for him with Tim Sullivan entirely if that should become known, with +the additional humiliation of being saved from this shameful death by +a woman. No matter how immeasurable his own gratitude, no matter how +wide his own pride in her for what she had done, the sheep country +never would be able to see it with his eyes. It would be another +smirch for him, and such a deep one as to obscure him and his chances +there forever. + +Joan knew it. In her generosity, her interest for his future, she +wanted her part in it to remain unknown. + +"You must promise me, John," she said. "I'll never come to take +another lesson unless you promise me." + +"I promise you, God bless you, Joan!" said he. + + + + +CHAPTER XII + +ONE COMES TO SERVE + + +An hour after midday there came riding over the hills Tim Sullivan and +a stranger. They stopped at the ruins of the sheep-wagon, where Tim +dismounted and nosed around, then came on down the draw, where +Mackenzie was ranging the sheep. + +Tim was greatly exercised over the loss of the wagon. He pitched into +Mackenzie about it as soon as he came within speaking distance. + +"How did you do it--kick over the lantern?" he inquired, his face +cloudy with ill-held wrath. + +Mackenzie explained, gruffly and in few words, how the wagon was +fired, sparing his own perilous adventure and the part that Joan had +borne in it. This slowed Tim down, and set him craning his neck over +the country to see if any further threat of violence impended on the +horizon. + +"Them Hall boys ought to be men enough not to do me a trick like that +after the way I've give in to them on this side of the range," he +said. Then to Mackenzie, sharply: "It wouldn't 'a' happened if you +hadn't took Hector's guns away from him that time. A sheepman's got no +right to be fightin' around on the range. If he wants to brawl and +scrap, let him do it when he goes to town, the way the cowboys used +to." + +"Maybe you're right; I'm beginning to think you are," Mackenzie +returned. + +"Right? Of course I'm right. A sheepman's got to set his head to +business, and watchin' the corners to prevent losses like this that +eats up the profit, and not go around with his sleeves rolled up and +his jaw slewed, lookin' for a fight. And if he starts one he's got to +have the backbone and the gizzard to hold up his end of it, and not +let 'em put a thing like this over on him. Why wasn't you in the wagon +last night watchin' it?" + +"Because I've been expecting them to burn it." + +"Sure you've been expectin' 'em to burn you out, and you hid in the +brush with your tail between your legs like a kicked pup and let 'em +set my new wagon afire. How did you git your face bunged up that +way?" + +"I fell down," Mackenzie said, with a sarcasm meant only for himself, +feeling that he had described his handling of the past situation in a +word. + +"Runnin' off, I reckon. Well, I tell you, John, it won't do, that kind +of business won't do. Them Hall boys are mighty rough fellers, too +rough for a boy like you that's been runnin' with school children all +his life. You got some kind of a lucky hitch on Hector when you +stripped that belt and guns off of him--I don't know how you done it; +it's a miracle he didn't nail you down with lead--but that kind of +luck won't play into a man's hands one time in a thousand. You never +ought 'a' started anything with them fellers unless you had the weight +in your hind-quarters to keep it goin'." + +"You're right," said Mackenzie, swallowing the rebuke like a bitter +pill. + +"Right? You make me tired standin' there and takin' it like a sick +cat! If you was half the man I took you to be when you struck this +range you'd resent a callin' down like I'm givin' you. But you don't +resent it, you take it, like you sneaked and let them fellers burn +that wagon and them supplies of mine. If you was expectin' 'em to turn +that kind of a trick you ought 'a' been right there in that wagon, +watchin' it--there's where you had a right to be." + +"I suppose there's where I'd been if I had your nerve, Sullivan," +Mackenzie said, his slow anger taking place of the humiliation that +had bent him down all morning like a shameful load. "Everybody on this +range knows you're a fighting man--you've fought the wind gettin' away +from this side of the range every time you saw smoke, you've got a +reputation for standing out for your rights like a man with a gizzard +in him as big as a sack of bran! Sure, I know all about the way you've +backed out of here and let Carlson and the Halls bluff you out of the +land you pay rent on, right along. If I had your nerve----" + + * * * * * + +Tim's face flamed as if he had risen from turning batter-cakes over a +fire. He made a smoothing, adjusting, pacificating gesture with his +hands, looking with something between deep concern and shame over his +shoulder at the man who accompanied him, and who sat off a few feet in +his saddle, a grin over his face. + +"Now, John, I don't mean for you to take it that I'm throwin' any slur +over your courage for the way things has turned out--I don't want you +to take it that way at all, lad," said Tim. + +"I'm not a fighting man"--Mackenzie was getting hotter as he went +on--"everybody in here knows that by now, I guess. You guessed wrong, +Sullivan, when you took me for one and put me over here to hold this +range for you that this crowd's been backing you off of a little +farther each spring. You're the brave spirit that's needed here--if +somebody could tie you and hold you to face the men that have robbed +you of the best range you've got. I put down my hand; I get out of the +way for you when it comes to the grit to put up a fight." + +"Oh, don't take it to heart what I've been sayin', lad. A man's hot +under the collar when he sees a dirty trick like that turned on him, +but it passes off like sweat, John. Let it go, boy, let it pass." + +"You sent me in here expecting me to fight, and when I don't always +come out on top you rib me like the devil's own for it. You expected +me to fight to hold this grass, but you didn't expect me to lose +anything at all. Well, I'll hold the range for you, Sullivan; you +don't need to lose any sleep over that. But if I'm willing to risk my +skin to do it, by thunder, you ought to be game enough to stand the +loss of a wagon without a holler that can be heard to Four Corners!" + +"You're doin' fine holdin' my range that I pay solid money to Uncle +Sam for, you're doin' elegant fine, lad. I was hasty, my tongue got +out from under the bit, boy. Let it pass; don't you go holdin' it +against an old feller like me that's got the worry of forty-odd +thousand sheep on his mind day and night." + +"It's easy enough to say, but it don't let you out. You've got no call +to come here and wade into me without knowing anything about the +circumstances." + +"Right you are, John, sound and right. I was hasty, I was too hot. +You've done fine here, you're the first man that's ever stood up to +them fellers and held 'em off my grass. You've done things up like a +man, John. I give it to you--like a man." + +"Thanks," said Mackenzie, in dry scorn. + +"I ain't got no kick to make over the loss of my wagon--it's been many +a day since I had one burnt up on me that way. Pass it up, pass up +anything I've said about it, John. That's the lad." + +So John passed it up, and unbent to meet the young man who rode with +Tim, whom the sheepman presented as Earl Reid, from Omaha, son of +Malcolm Reid, an old range partner and friend. The young man had come +out to learn the sheep business; Tim had brought him over for +Mackenzie to break in. Dad Frazer was coming along with three thousand +sheep, due to arrive in about a week. When he got there, the +apprentice would split his time between them. + +Mackenzie received the apprentice as cordially as he could, but it was +not as ardent a welcome as the young man may have expected, owing to +the gloom of resentment into which Sullivan's outbreak had thrown this +unlucky herder on the frontier of the range. + +Reid was rather a sophisticated looking youth of twenty-two or +twenty-three, city broke, city marked. There was a poolroom pallor +about this thin face, a poolroom stoop to his thin shoulders, that +Mackenzie did not like. But he was frank and ingenuous in his +manner, with a ready smile that redeemed his homely face, and a pair +of blue eyes that seemed young in their innocence compared to the +world-knowledge that his face betrayed. + +"Take the horses down there to the crick and water 'em," Tim directed +his new herder, "and then you'll ride back with me as far as Joan's +camp and fetch over some grub to hold you two fellers till the wagon +comes. Joan, she'll know what to give you, and I guess you can find +your way back here?" + +"Surest thing you know," said Earl, with easy confidence, riding off +to water the horses. + +"That kid's no stranger to the range," Mackenzie said, more to himself +than to Tim, as he watched him ride off. + +"No, he used to be around with the cowboys on Malcolm's ranch when he +was in the cattle business. He can handle a horse as good as you or +me. Malcolm was the man that set me up in the sheep business; I +started in with him like you're startin' with me, more than thirty +years ago. He was the first sheepman on this range, and he had to +fight to hold his own, I'm here to say!" + +"You'd better send the kid over into peaceful territory," Mackenzie +suggested, crabbedly. + +"No, the old man wants him to get a taste of what he went through to +make his start--he was tickled to the toes when he heard the way them +Hall boys are rarin' up and you standin' 'em off of this range of +mine. 'Send him over there with that man,' he says; 'that's the kind +of a man I want him to break in under.' The old feller was tickled +clean to his toes." + +"Is he over at the ranch?" + +"No, he went back home last night. Come down to start the kid right, +and talk it over with me. It was all a surprise to me, I didn't know a +thing about it, but I couldn't turn Malcolm down." Tim winked, looked +cunning, nodded in a knowing way. "Kid's been cuttin' up throwin' away +too much money; gettin' into scrapes like a boy in town will, you +know. Wild oats and a big crop of 'em. The old man's staked him out +with me for three years, and he ain't to draw one cent of pay, or have +one cent to spend, in that time. If he breaks over, it's all off +between them two. And the kid's sole heir to nearly half a million." + +Mackenzie turned to look again at the boy, who was coming back with +the horses. + +"Do you think he'll stick?" he asked. + +"Yes, he promised the old man he would, and if he's anything like +Malcolm, he'll eat fire before he'll break his word. Malcolm and me we +come to terms in ten words. The kid's to work three years for me +without pay; then I'll marry him to my Joan." + +Mackenzie felt his blood come up hot, and sink down again, cold; felt +his heart kick in one resentful surge, then fall away to weakness as +if its cords had been cut. Tim laughed, looking down the draw toward +the sheep. + +"It's something like that Jacob and Laban deal you spoke about the +other day," said he. "Curious how things come around that way, ain't +it? There I went ridin' off, rakin' up my brains to remember that +story, and laughed when it come to me all of a sudden. Jacob skinned +them willow sticks, and skinned the old man, too. But I don't guess +Earl would turn a trick like that on me, even if he could." + +"How about Joan? Does she agree to the terms?" Mackenzie could not +forbear the question, even though his throat was dry, his lips cold, +his voice husky at the first word. + +"She'll jump at it," Tim declared, warmly. "She wants to go away from +here and see the world, and this will be her chance. I don't object to +her leavin', either, as long as it don't cost me anything. You go +ahead and stuff her, John; stuff her as full of learnin' as she'll +hold. It'll be cheaper for me than sendin' her off to school and +fittin' her up to be a rich man's wife, and you can do her just as +much good--more, from what she tells me. You go right ahead and stuff +her, John." + +"Huh!" said John. + +"Earl, he'll look after your sheep while you're teachin' Joan her +books. Stuff her, but don't founder her, John. If any man can fit her +up to prance in high society, I'd bet my last dollar you can. You're a +kind of a gentleman yourself, John." + +"Thanks," said John, grinning a dry grin. + +"Yes," reminiscently, with great satisfaction, "Malcolm made the +proposition to me, hit me with it so sudden it nearly took my breath. +'Marry him to your Joan when you make a man of him,' he says. I said +maybe he wouldn't want to hitch up with a sheepman's daughter that was +brought up on the range. 'If he don't he can go to work and make his +own way--I'll not leave him a dam' cent!' says Malcolm. We shook hands +on it; he said he'd put it in his will. And that's cinched so it can't +slip." + +When Tim mounted to leave he looked round the range again with a +drawing of trouble in his face, as if he searched the peaceful +landscape for the shadow of wings. + +"I ain't got another sheep-wagon to give you right now, John; I guess +you'll have to make out with a tent till winter," he said. + +"I'd rather have it," Mackenzie replied. + +Tim leaned over, hand to one side of his mouth, speaking in low voice, +yet not whispering: + +"And remember what I said about that matter, John. Stuff, but don't +founder." + +"Stuff," said John, but with an inflection that gave the word a +different meaning, quite. + + + + +CHAPTER XIII + +A FIGHT ALMOST LOST + + +Dad Frazer was not overly friendly toward the young man from Omaha who +had come out to learn the sheep business under the threat of penalties +and the promise of high rewards. He growled around about him +continually when he and Mackenzie met, which was not very often, owing +to their being several miles apart. Tim had stationed Dad and his big +band of sheep between Mackenzie and Joan, leaving the schoolmaster to +hold the frontier. No matter for old man Reid's keenness to have his +son suffer some of the dangers which he had faced in his day, Tim +seemed to be holding the youth back out of harm's way, taking no risks +on losing a good thing for the family. + +Reid had been on the range about two weeks, but Mackenzie had not seen +a great deal of him, owing to Tim's plan of keeping him out of the +disputed territory, especially at night. That the young man did not +care much for the company or instruction of Dad Frazer was plain. +Twice he had asked Mackenzie to use his influence with Tim to bring +about a change from the old man's camp to his. In Mackenzie's silence +and severity the young man found something that he could not +penetrate, a story that he could not read. Perhaps it was with a view +to finding out what school Mackenzie had been seasoned in that Reid +bent himself to win his friendship. + +Dad Frazer came over the hills to Mackenzie's range that afternoon, to +stretch his legs, he said, although Mackenzie knew it was to stretch +his tongue, caring nothing for the miles that lay between. He had left +Reid in charge of his flock, the young man being favored by Tim to the +extent of allowing him a horse, the same as he did Joan. + +"I'm glad he takes to you," said Dad. "I don't like him; he's got a +graveyard in his eyes." + +"I don't think he ever pulled a gun on anybody in his life, Dad," +Mackenzie returned, in mild amazement. + +"I don't mean that kind of a graveyard; I mean a graveyard where he +buried the boy in him long before his time. He's too sharp for his +years; he's seen too much of the kind of life a young feller's better +off for to hear about from a distance and never touch. I tell you, +John, he ain't no good." + +"He's an agreeable kind of a chap, anyhow; he's got a line of talk +like a saddle salesman." + +"Yes, and I never did have no use for a talkin' man. Nothin' to 'em; +they don't stand the gaff." + +In spite of his friendly defense of young Reid, Mackenzie felt that +Dad had read him aright. There was something of subtle knowledge, an +edge of guile showing through his easy nature and desire to please, +that was like acid on the teeth. Reid had the faculty of making +himself agreeable, and he was an apt and willing hand, but back of +this ingenuous appearance there seemed to be something elusive and +shadowy, a thing which he tried to keep hidden by nimble maneuvers, +but which would show at times for all his care. + +Mackenzie did not dislike the youth, but he found it impossible to +warm up to him as one man might to another in a place where human +companionship is a luxury. When Reid sat with a cigarette in his thin +lips--it was a wide mouth, worldly hard--hazy in abstraction and +smoke, there came a glaze over the clearness of his eyes, a look of +dead harshness, a cast of cunning. In such moments his true nature +seemed to express itself unconsciously, and Dad Frazer, simple as he +was in many ways, was worldly man enough to penetrate the smoke, and +sound the apprentice sheepman to his soul. + +Reid seemed to draw a good deal of amusement out of his situation +under Tim Sullivan. He was dependent on the flockmaster for his +clothing and keep, even tobacco and papers for his cigarettes. If he +knew anything about the arrangement between his father and Sullivan in +regard to Joan, he did not mention it. That he knew it, Mackenzie +fully believed, for Tim Sullivan was not the man to keep the reward +sequestered. + +Whether Reid looked toward Joan as adequate compensation for three +years' exile in the sheeplands, there was no telling. Perhaps he did +not think much of her in comparison with the exotic plants of the +atmosphere he had left; more than likely there was a girl in the +background somewhere, around whom some of the old man's anxiety to +save the lad revolved. Mackenzie hoped to the deepest cranny of his +heart that it was so. + +"He seems to get a good deal of humor out of working here for his +board and tobacco," Mackenzie said. + +"Yes, he blatters a good deal about it," said Dad. "'I'll take +another biscuit on Tim Sullivan,' he says, and 'here goes another +smoke on Tim.' I don't see where he's got any call to make a joke out +of eatin' another man's bread." + +"Maybe he's never eaten any man's bread outside of the family before, +Dad." + +"I reckon he wouldn't have to be doin' it now if he'd 'a' been decent. +Oh well, maybe he ain't so bad." + +This day Dad was maneuvering around to unload the apprentice on +Mackenzie for good. He worked up to it gradually, as if feeling his +way with his good foot ahead, careful not to be too sudden and plunge +into a hole. + +"I don't like a feller around that talks so much," Dad complained. +"When he's around a man ain't got no time to think and plan and lay +his projec's for what he's a goin' to do. All I can do to put a word +in edgeways once in a while." + +It appeared plain enough that Dad's sore spot was this very inability +to land as many words as he thought he had a right to. That is the +complaint of any talkative person. If you are a good listener, with a +_yes_ and a _no_ now and then, a talkative man will tell your friends +you are the most interesting conversationalist he ever met. + +"I don't mind him," Mackenzie said, knowing very well that Dad would +soon be so hungry for somebody to unload his words upon that he would +be talking to the sheep. "Ship him over to me when you're tired of +him; I'll work some of the wind out of him inside of a week." + +"I'll send him this evenin'," said Dad, eager in his relief, +brightening like an uncovered coal. "Them dogs Joan give you's +breakin' in to the sound of your voice wonderful, ain't they?" + +"They're getting used to me slowly." + +"Funny about dogs a woman's been runnin' sheep with. Mighty unusual +they'll take up with a man after that. I used to be married to a +Indian woman up on the Big Wind that was some hummer trainin' +sheep-dogs. That woman could sell 'em for a hundred dollars apiece as +fast as she could raise 'em and train 'em up, and them dad-splashed +collies they'd purt' near all come back home after she'd sold 'em. +Say, I've knowed them dogs to come back a hundred and eighty mile!" + +"That must have been a valuable woman to have around a man's camp. +Where is she now, if I'm not too curious?" + +"She was a good woman, one of the best women I ever had." Dad rubbed +his chin, eyes reflectively on the ground, stood silent a spell that +was pretty long for him. "I hated like snakes to lose that woman--her +name was Little Handful Of Rabbit Hair On A Rock. Ye-es. She was a +hummer on sheep-dogs, all right. She took a swig too many out of my +jug one day and tripped over a stick and tumbled into the hog-scaldin' +tank." + +"What a miserable end!" said Mackenzie, shocked by the old man's +indifferent way of telling it. + +"Oh, it didn't hurt her much," said Dad. "Scalded one side of her till +she peeled off and turned white. I couldn't stand her after that. You +know a man don't want to be goin' around with no pinto woman, John." +Dad looked up with a gesture of depreciation, a queer look of apology +in his weather-beaten face. "She was a Crow," he added, as if that +explained much that he had not told. + +"Dark, huh?" + +"Black; nearly as black as a nigger." + +"Little Handful, and so forth, must have thought you gave her a pretty +hard deal, anyhow, Dad." + +"I never called her by her full name," Dad reflected, passing over the +moral question that Mackenzie raised. "I shortened her down to Rabbit. +I sure wish I had a couple of them sheep-dogs of her'n to give you in +place of them you lost. Joan's a good little girl, but she can't train +a dog like Rabbit." + +"Rabbit's still up there on the Big Wind waiting for you, is she?" + +"She'll wait a long time! I'm done with Indians. Joan comin' over +today?" + +"Tomorrow." + +"I don't guess you'll have her to bother with much longer--her and +that Reid boy they'll be hitchin' up one of these days from all the +signs. He skirmishes off over that way nearly every day. Looks to me +like Tim laid it out that way, givin' him a horse to ride and leavin' +me and you to hoof it. It'd suit Tim, all right; I've heard old Reid's +a millionaire." + +"I guess it would," Mackenzie said, trying to keep his voice from +sounding as cold as his heart felt that moment. + +"Yes, I think they'll hitch. Well, I'd like to see Joan land a better +man than him. I don't like a man that can draw a blinder over his eyes +like a frog." + +Mackenzie smiled at the aptness of Dad's comparison. It was, indeed, +as if Reid interposed a film like a frog when he plunged from one +element into another, so to speak; when he left the sheeplands in his +thoughts and went back to the haunts and the companions lately known. + +"If Joan had a little more meat on her she wouldn't be a bad looker," +said Dad. "Well, when a man's young he likes 'em slim, and when he's +old he wants 'em fat. It'd be a calamity if a man was to marry a +skinny girl like Joan and she was to stay skinny all his life." + +"I don't think she's exactly skinny, Dad." + +"No, I don't reckon you could count her ribs. But you put fifty pounds +more on that girl and see how she'd look!" + +"I can't imagine it," said Mackenzie, not friendly to the notion at +all. + +As Dad went back to unburden himself of his unwelcome companion, +Mackenzie could not suppress the thought that a good many unworthy +notions hatched beneath that dignified white hair. But surely Dad +might be excused by a more stringent moralist than the schoolmaster +for abandoning poor Rabbit after her complexion had suffered in the +hog-scalding vat. + +Toward sundown Earl Reid came riding over, his winning smile as easy +on his face as he was in the saddle. The days were doing him good, all +around, toughening his face, taking the poolroom pastiness out of it, +putting a bracer in his back. Mackenzie noted the improvement as +readily as it could be seen in some quick-growing plant. + +Mackenzie was living a very primitive and satisfactory life under a +few yards of tent canvas since the loss of his wagon. He stretched it +over such bushes as came handy, storing his food beneath it when he +slept, save on such nights as threatened showers. Reid applauded this +arrangement. He was tired of Dad Frazer's wagon, and the greasy bunk +in it. + +"I've been wild to stretch out in a blanket with my feet to a little +fire," he said, with a flash of the eagerness belonging to the boyhood +buried away too soon, as Dad had remarked. "Dad wouldn't let me do +it--fussed at me three days because I sneaked out on him one night and +laid under the wagon." + +"Dad didn't want a skunk to bite you, I guess. He felt a heavy +responsibility on your account." + +"Old snoozer!" said Reid. + +Reid was uncommonly handy as a camp-cook, far better in that respect +than Mackenzie, who gladly turned the kitchen duties over to him and +let him have his way. After supper they sat talking, the lusty moon +lifting a wondering face over the hills in genial placidity as if +sure, after all its ages, of giving the world a surprise at last. + +"Joan told me to bring you word she'd be over in the morning instead +of tomorrow afternoon," said Reid. + +"Thanks." + +Reid smoked in reflective silence, his thin face clear in the +moonlight. + +"Some girl," said he. "I don't see why she wants to go to all this +trouble to get a little education. That stuff's all bunk. I wish I had +the coin in my jeans right now the old man spent on me, pourin' +stuff into me that went right on through like smoke through a +handkerchief." + +"I don't think it would be that way with Joan," Mackenzie said, hoping +Reid would drop the discussion there, and not go into the arrangement +for the future, which was a matter altogether detestable in the +schoolmaster's thoughts. + +Reid did not pursue his speculations on Joan, whether through delicacy +or indifference Mackenzie could not tell. He branched off into talk of +other things, through which the craving for the life he had left came +out in strong expressions of dissatisfaction with the range. He +complained against the penance his father had set, looking ahead with +consternation to the three years he must spend in those solitudes. + +"But I'm goin' to stick," he said, an unmistakable determination in +his tone. "I'll show him they're making as good men now as they did +when he was a kid." He laughed, a raucous, short laugh, an old man's +laugh, which choked in a cigarette cough and made a mockery of mirth. +"I'll toughen up out here and have better wind for the big finish when +I sit in on the old man's money." + +No, Joan was not cast for any important part in young Reid's future +drama, Mackenzie understood. As if his thoughts had penetrated to the +young man's heart, making fatuous any further attempt at concealment +of his true sentiments, Reid spoke. + +"They've sewed me up in a sack with Joan--I guess you know about it?" + +"Tim was telling me." + +"A guy could do worse." + +With this comforting reflection Reid stretched himself on his blanket +and went to sleep. Mackenzie was not slow in following his example, +for it had been a hard day with the sheep, with much leg work on +account of the new dogs showing a wolfish shyness of their new master +most exasperating at times. Mackenzie's last thought was that Reid +would take a great deal of labor off his legs by using the horse in +attending the sheep. + +A scream woke Mackenzie. He heaved up out of his sleep with confusion +clouding his senses for the moment, the thought that he was on water, +and the cry was that of one who drowned, persistent above his +struggling reason. It was a choking cry, the utterance of a desperate +soul who sees life fleeing while he lifts his voice in the last +appeal. And between him and his companion Mackenzie saw the bulk of a +giant-shouldered man, who bent with arm outstretched toward him, whose +hand came in contact with his throat as he rose upright with the stare +of confusion in his eyes. + +Mackenzie broke through this film of his numbing sleep, reaching for +the rifle that he had laid near his hand. It was gone, and across the +two yards intervening he saw young Reid writhing in the grip of the +monster who was strangling out his life. + +Mackenzie wrenched free from the great hand that closed about his +throat, tearing the mighty arm away with the strength of both his own. +A moment, and he was involved in the most desperate struggle that he +had ever faced in his life. + +This interference gave Reid a new gulp of life. The three combatants +were on their feet now, not a word spoken, not a sound but the dull +impact of blows and the hard breathings of the two who fought this +monster of the sheeplands for their lives. Swan Carlson, Mackenzie +believed him to be, indulging his insane desire for strangling out the +lives of men. He had approached so stealthily, with such wild cunning, +that the dogs had given no alarm, and had taken the gun to insure +against miscarriage or interruption in his horrible menu of death. + +A brief tangle of locked arms, swaying bodies, ribs all but crushed in +the embrace of those bestial arms, and Mackenzie was conscious that he +was fighting the battle alone. In the wild swirl of it he could not +see whether Reid had fallen or torn free. A little while, now in the +pressure of those hairy, bare arms, now free for one gasping breath, +fighting as man never fought in the sheeplands before that hour, and +Mackenzie felt himself snatched up bodily and thrown down from +uplifted arms with a force that must have ended all for him then but +for the interposition of a sage-clump that broke the fall. + +Instantly the silent monster was upon him. Mackenzie met him hand to +hand, fighting the best fight that was in him, chilled with the belief +that it was his last. But he could not come up from his knees, and in +this position his assailant bent over him, one hand on his forehead, +the other at the back of his neck, a knee against his breast. + +Mackenzie tore at the great, stiff arms with his last desperate might, +perhaps staying a little the pressure that in a moment more must snap +his spine. As the assassin tightened this terrible grip Mackenzie's +face was lifted toward the sky. Overhead was the moon, clear-edged, +bright, in the dusk of the immensities beyond; behind the monster, who +paused that breath as in design to fill his victim's last moment with +a hope that he soon would mock, Mackenzie saw young Reid. + +The youth was close upon the midnight strangler, stooping low. As the +terrible pressure on forehead and neck cracked his spine like a +breaking icicle, Mackenzie believed he shouted, putting into his voice +all that he felt of desperate need of help. And he saw young Reid +strike, and felt the breaking wrench of the cruel hands relax, and +fell down upon the ground like a dead man and knew no more. + +Reid was there with the lantern, putting water on Mackenzie's head +when he again broke through the mists and followed the thread of his +soul back to his body. Reid was encouraging him to be steady, and to +take it easy, assuring him that he never saw a man put up such a fight +as the schoolmaster had all but lost. + +Mackenzie sat up presently, with throbbing head, a feeling of bulging +in his eyeballs, his neck stiff from the wrenching it had received. +The great body of the man whom he had fought lay stretched in the +moonlight, face to the ground. The camp butcher knife was sticking in +his back. Mackenzie got to his feet, a dizziness over him, but a sense +of his obligation as clear as it ever was in any man. + +"I owe you one for that; I'll not forget it in a hurry," he said, +giving Reid his hand. + +"No, we're even on it," Reid returned. "He'd 'a' broke my neck in +another second if you hadn't made that tackle. Who is he, do you +know?" + +"Turn him over," Mackenzie said. + +Reid withdrew the knife, sticking it into the ground with as little +concern as if he had taken it from a butcher's block, and heaved the +fellow over on his back. The moonlight revealed his dusty features +clearly, but Mackenzie brought the lantern to make it doubly sure. + +"He's not the man I thought he was," said he. "I think this fellow's +name is Matt Hall. He's the sheep-killer you've heard about. +Look--he's all over blood--there's wool on his shirt." + +"Matt Hall, huh?" said Reid. He wiped the butcher knife on the dead +sheep-killer's shirt, making a little whistling, reflective sound +through his teeth. "I'll have to scour that knife before we cut bacon +with it in the morning," he said. + + + + +CHAPTER XIV + +THE LONESOMENESS + + +"He's got the lonesomeness," said Dad, "and I tell you, John, when +that gits a hold of a man he ain't responsible. It's the same as +shuttin' a man up in jail to break him off of booze--say, he'll claw +the rocks out of the wall with his finger nails to git out where he +can take a snort." + +"I never had the lonesomeness, so I don't know, but there's something +the matter with the kid." + +"Yes, I see him tearin' around the country ridin' the head off of that +horse, never lookin' where he's goin' any more than a bat. He's been +clean over to Four Corners after the mail twice this week. A feller +must want a letter purty bad when he'll go to all that fuss for it." + +"I'm afraid it's going to be hard for him; he hasn't any more than +bitten into his three years yet; he don't really know how they +taste." + +"It'll break him; he'll go all to pieces, I tell you John. When the +lonesomeness takes a hold of a feller that way something pops in his +head after a while; then he either puts a bullet through his heart or +settles down and gits fat. That feller ain't got it in him to put on +loco fat." + +Dad had slicked himself up pretty well that day before cutting across +the range for a chat with Mackenzie. His operations with the +sheep-shears on his fuzzy whiskers had not been uniform, probably due +to the lack of a mirror. Dad trusted to the feel of it when he had no +water by to look into and guide his hand, and this time he had cut +close to the skin in several places, displaying his native color +beneath the beard. But whatever he lacked in his chin-hedge he made up +for in careful arrangement of his truly beautiful hair. + +There was a sniff of perfume about him, a nosegay of wild flowers +pinned in the pocket of his shirt. Mackenzie marveled over these +refinements in the old man's everyday appearance, but left it to his +own time and way to tell what plans or expectations prompted them. + +"Hector Hall showed up?" + +"No." + +"Reid wouldn't make any more than a snap and a swaller out of that +feller, I guess. But it ain't good for a man like him to start out +killin'; it goes to his liver too quick and drives him mooney." + +"I don't suppose it's very healthy for any man, Dad." + +"You said it! I've went fifty miles around a range to skip a feller +that was lookin' for my skelp, and I'd go a thousand before I'd crowd +a fight. I never was much on the fight, and runnin' sheep took what +little was in me out a long time ago." + +Dad got out his red box of corn-husk cigarettes, offering it silently +to Mackenzie, who shook his head, knowing very well that Dad did it to +observe conventions rather than out of a desire to have him help +himself. The stock of Mexican smokes was running low; Dad had spoken +of it only the day before, and his feet were itching for the road to +the border, he said. + +"Well, he's got a name and a fame in this country he can travel on," +said Dad. + +Which was true enough. Mackenzie's fight with Swan Carlson had taken +second place, his reputation as a fighting man in the sheeplands had +paled almost to nothing, after Reid's swift-handed dealing with Matt +Hall. The fame of his exploit ran through the country, fixing his +place in it at once, for Matt Hall was known as a man who had the +strength of seven in his long, gorilla arms. + +Hector Hall, brother of the slain man, seemed to accept the tragedy +with a sorrowful resignation in which no shadow of revenge appeared. +He let it be known that Matt had been irresponsible at times, given to +night-prowlings and outbreaks of violence of strange and fantastic +forms. How much truth there was in this excuse for the dead man, +Hector alone knew. But no matter for his passivity, Mackenzie did not +trust him. He made a requisition on Tim Sullivan at once for revolvers +for himself and Reid, which Tim delegated the young man to go to Four +Corners and buy. + +"Well, I come over to see if you'll lend Reid to me three or four days +while I make a trip to town," said Dad. "I've got a little business +over there to tend to I've been puttin' off for more than a month." + +"Yes, if it's all right with Tim you can have him. What's up, getting +married?" + +"Kind of arrangin', John, kind of arrangin'. There's a widow-lady over +at Four Corners I used to rush that needs a man to help her with her +sheep. A man might as well marry a sheep ranch as work on one, I +reckon." + +"It's a shorter cut, anyhow. When do you want Reid?" + +"I was aimin' to rack out this evenin', John." + +"I'll send him over this afternoon. I don't know where he is, but +he'll be back for dinner." + +Dad went away well satisfied and full of cheer, Mackenzie marveling +over his marital complexities as he watched him go. Together with +Rabbit, and the Mexican woman down El Paso way whom John had +mentioned, but of whom Dad never had spoken, and no telling how many +more scattered around the country, Dad seemed to be laying the +groundwork for a lively roundup one of his days. He said he'd been +marrying women off and on for forty years. His easy plan seemed to be +just to take one that pleased his capricious temper wherever he found +her, without regard to former obligations. + +Mackenzie grinned. He did not believe any man was so obscure as to be +able to escape many wives. Dad seemed to be a dry-land sailor, with a +wife in every town he ever had made in his life. Mackenzie understood +about Mexican marriages. If they were priest marriages, they were +counted good; if they were merely justice of the peace ones they were +subject to wide and elastic infringement on both sides. Probably +Indian marriages were similar. Surely Dad was old enough to know what +he was about. + +Reid came to camp at noontime, and prepared dinner in his quick and +handy way. Mackenzie did not take up the question of his acting as +relief for Dad while the old scout went off to push his arrangements +for marrying a sheep ranch, seeing that Reid was depressed and +down-spirited and in no pleasant mood. + +They were almost independent of the camp-mover, owing to their light +equipment, which they could carry with them from day to day as the +sheep ranged. Supplies were all they needed from the wagon, which came +around to them twice a week. After dinner Reid began packing up for +the daily move, moody and silent, cigarette dangling on his lip. + +"It's a one-hell of a life!" said he, looking up from the last knot in +the rope about the bundle of tent. + +"Have you soured on it already, Earl?" + +Reid sat on the bundle of tent, a cloud on his face, hat drawn almost +to the bridge of his nose, scowling out over the sheep range as if he +would curse it to a greater barrenness. + +"Three years of this, and what'll I be? Hell! I can't even find that +other Hall." + +"Have you been out looking for him?" + +"That big Swede over there was tellin' me he's put me down in his book +for a killin'. I thought I'd give him a chance to get it over with if +he meant it." + +"Has Carlson been over?" + +"No, I rode over there the other evening. Say, is that the woman you +found chained up when you struck this country?" + +"She's the one." + +Mackenzie looked at Reid curiously as he answered. There was something +of quick eagerness in the young man's inquiry, a sudden light of a new +interest in his face, in sharp contrast with the black mood of a +moment before. + +"She looks like an Ibsen heroine," said Reid. "Take that woman out of +this country and dress her right, and she'd be a queen." + +"You'd better keep away from there," said Mackenzie, dryly. + +"Oh, I guess I can take care of Swan if you could," Reid returned, +with a certain easy insolence, jerking his hip to hitch his gun around +in suggestive movement. + +Mackenzie dropped the matter without more words, seeing too plainly +the humor of the youth. Maybe Dad had diagnosed his ailment aright, +but to Mackenzie it appeared something more than plain lonesomeness. +The notoriety attending the killing of Matt Hall had not been good for +Reid. He wanted more of it, and a bigger audience, a wider field. + +If this was a taste of the adventure of the West's past romantic +times, Mackenzie felt that he was lucky he had come too late to share +it. His own affair with Swan Carlson had been sordid enough, but this +unlucky embroilment in which Reid had killed a man was a plain +misfortune to the hero of the fight. He told Reid of Dad's request. + +"You go and run his sheep for him," Reid suggested. "It'll take you a +little nearer Joan." + +This he added as with studied sneer, his face flushing darkly, his +thin mouth twisted in an ugly grin. + +Mackenzie passed it, but not without the hurt of the unkind stab +showing in his face. It was so entirely unjustified as to be cruel, +for Mackenzie was not in Reid's way even to the extent of one lurking, +selfish thought. Since Reid had saved his life from Matt Hall's +murderous hands, Mackenzie had withdrawn even his most remote hope in +regard to Joan. Before that he had spun his thread of dreams, quite +honestly, and with intent that he would not have denied, but since, +not at all. + +He owed Reid too much to cross him with Joan; he stepped aside, +denying himself a thought of her save only in relation of teacher and +pupil, trying to convince himself that it was better in the end for +Joan. Reid had all the advantage of him in prospects; he could lift up +the curtain on his day and show Joan the splendors of a world that a +schoolmaster could point out only from afar. Mackenzie seemed to +ignore the youth's suggestion that he go and tend Dad's flock. + +"If I had a thousand dollars I'd dust it for Mexico tomorrow," said +Reid. He turned to Mackenzie, pushing his hat back from his forehead, +letting the sun on his savagely knotted face. "I haven't got money to +send a telegram, not even a special delivery letter! Look at me! A +millionaire's son and sole heir, up against a proposition like this +for three years!" + +Mackenzie let him sweat it out, offering neither water for his thirst +nor wood for his fire. Reid sat in surly silence, running his thumb +along his cartridge belt. + +"A man's friends forget him out here," he complained; "he's the same +to them as dead." + +"It's the way everywhere when a man wants to borrow money," Mackenzie +told him, not without the shade of a sneer. + +"I've let them have enough in my time that they could afford to come +across with what I asked for!" + +"I think you'd better stick to the sheep business with Tim," +Mackenzie advised, not unkindly, ashamed of his momentary weakness and +scorn. "A man's prospects don't look very good back home when a bunch +of parasites and grafters won't come over with a little loan." + +"They can go to the devil! I can live without them." + +"And get fat on it, kid. Three years here will be little more to you +than as many days, if you get--interested." + +Reid exclaimed impatiently, dismissing such assurance with a testy +gesture. + +"How much will you give me for my chances?" he asked. + +"Nobody else can play your hand, kid." + +"On the square, Mackenzie. Will you give me a thousand dollars?" + +"I'm not sole heir to any millionaire," Mackenzie reminded him, taking +the proposal in the jesting spirit that he supposed it was given. + +"On the dead, Mackenzie--I mean it. Will you give me a thousand +dollars for my place in the sheep game, girl and all? If you will, +I'll hit the breeze tonight for Mexico and kick it all over to you, +win or lose." + +"If I could buy you out for a dime we couldn't trade," Mackenzie told +him, a coldness in tone and manner that was more than a reproof. + +"Joan ought to be worth that much to you!" Reid sneered. + +Mackenzie got up, walked a few steps away, turned back presently, his +temper in hand. + +"It's not a question open to discussion between gentlemen," he said. + +Reid blinked up at him, an odd leer on his sophisticated face, saying +no more. He made a pack on his saddle of the camp outfit, and started +off along the ridge, leaving Mackenzie to follow as he pleased. A mile +or more along Reid pitched upon a suitable camping place. He had +himself established long before Mackenzie came to where he sat smoking +amid his gloomy, impatient thoughts. + +"I'm not going over to relieve that old skunk," Reid announced, "not +without orders from Sullivan. If he gets off you'll have to relieve +him yourself. I don't want that Hall guy to get it into his nut that +I'm runnin' away from him." + +"All right, Earl," said Mackenzie, good-naturedly, "I'll go." + +"You'll be half an hour nearer Joan's camp--she'll have that much +longer to stay," said Reid, his mean leer creeping into his wide, thin +lips again. + +Mackenzie turned slowly to look him squarely in the eyes. He stood so +a few seconds, Reid coloring in hot resentment of the silent rebuke. + +"I've heard enough of that to last me the rest of your three years," +Mackenzie said, something as hard as stones in a cushion under his +calm voice. + +Reid jerked his hip in his peculiar twisting movement to shift his +pistol belt, turned, and walked away. + +If it was the lonesomeness, Mackenzie thought, it was taking a mighty +peculiar turn in that fellow. He was more like a cub that was +beginning to find itself, and bristle and snarl and turn to bite the +hand that had fended it through its helpless stage. Perhaps it would +pass in a little while, or perhaps it would get worse on him. In the +latter case there would be no living on the range with Reid, for on +the range Mackenzie believed Reid was destined to remain. He had been +trying to borrow money to get away, with what view in his dissatisfied +head Mackenzie could not guess. He hadn't got it; he wouldn't get it. +Those who had fattened on him in his prosperity were strangers to him +in his time of penance and disgrace. + +Mackenzie put off his start to Dad's camp until dusk, knowing the old +man would prefer to take the road at night, after his mysterious way. +He probably would hoof it over to Sullivan's and borrow a buckboard to +make a figure in before the widow-lady upon whom he had anchored his +variable heart. + +Reid was bringing in the sheep when Mackenzie left, too far away for a +word. Mackenzie thought of going down to him, for he disliked to part +with anything like a shadow between them, feeling that he owed Reid a +great debt indeed. More than that, he liked the kid, for there seemed +to be a streak of good in him that all his ugly moods could not cover. +But he went his way over the hills toward Dad's camp, the thought +persisting in him that he would, indeed, be thirty minutes nearer +Joan. And it was a thought that made his heart jump and a gladness +burn in his eyes, and his feet move onward with a swift eagerness. + +But only as a teacher with a lively interest in his pupil, he said; +only that, and nothing more. On a hilltop a little way beyond his camp +he stopped suddenly, his breath held to listen. Over the calm, +far-carrying silence of the early night there came the sound of a +woman singing, and this was the manner of her song: + + _Na-a-fer a-lo-o-one, na-a-fer a-lone. + He promise na-fer to leafe me, + Na-fer to leafe me a-lone!_ + + + + +CHAPTER XV + +ONLY ONE JACOB + + +Joan came riding over the next morning from Reid's camp, not having +heard of Mackenzie's shift to oblige Dad Frazer. She was bareheaded, +the sun in her warm hair, hat hanging on her saddle-horn. + +"Dad might have come by and told me," she said, flinging to the ground +as lightly as a swallow. "It would have saved us half an hour." + +"We'll have to work harder to make it up," Mackenzie told her, +thinking how much more a woman she was growing every day. + +Joan was distrait again that day, her eyes fixed often in dreamy +speculation as her teacher explained something that she found hard, +against her wonted aptness, to understand. When the rather disjointed +lesson came to an end Joan sighed, strapping her books in a way that +seemed to tell that she was weary of them. + +"Do you still think you'll stick to the sheep business, John?" she +asked, not lifting her eyes to his face, all out of her frank and +earnest way of questioning. + +"I'm only on probation, you know, Joan; something might happen between +now and this time next year to change things all around. There's a +chance, anyhow, that I may not make good." + +"No, nothing will ever happen to change it," said Joan, shaking her +head sadly. "Nothing that ought to happen ever happens here. I don't +know whether I can stand it to carry out my contract with dad or not. +Three years between me and what I'm longing for!" + +"It's not very long when one's young, Joan. Well, I don't know of any +short cuts to either fame or fortune, or I'd have taken them myself." + +"Yes, but you're free to pick up and go whenever you want to. A man +don't have to have money to strike out and see the world--I don't see +why a woman should. I could work my way as well as anybody." + +"They're harder masters out there than the range is to you here, Joan. +And there's the insolence of mastery, and the obloquy of poverty and +situation that I hope you'll never feel. Wait a little while longer +with the probationers among the sheep." + +"Earl never will stay it out," she said, lifting her eyes for a moment +to his. "He's sick of it now--he'd throw everything over if he had the +money to get away." + +"He'd be a very foolish young man, then. But it's like breaking off +smoking, I guess, to quit the things you've grown up with on short +notice like he had." + +"Maybe in about a year more my interest will amount to enough to let +me out," said Joan, pursuing her thought of winning to freedom in the +way she had elected. She seemed innocent of any knowledge of the +arrangement whereby Earl Reid was working for his reward. Mackenzie +wondered if it could be so. + +"If dad'll buy me out then," she said, speculatively, doubtfully, +carrying on her thought in a disjointed way. "It would be like him to +turn me down, though, if I want to quit before my time's up. And he +wouldn't let me divide the sheep and sell my share to anybody else." + +No, Joan could not yet know of Tim's arrangement with Earl Reid's +father. It would be like Tim, indeed, to bargain her off without +considering her in the matter at all. To a man like Tim his sons and +daughters were as much his chattels as his sheep, kind as he was in +his way. The apprenticeship of Joan to the range was proof of that. +Somewhere out in that gray loneliness two younger daughters were +running sheep, with little brothers as protectors and companions, +beginning their adventures and lessons in the only school they were +ever likely to know. + +Tim made a great virtue of the fact that he had taught all of them to +read and write. That much would serve most of them satisfactorily for +a few years, but Mackenzie grinned his dry grin to himself when he +thought of the noise there would be one day in Tim Sullivan's cote +when the young pigeons shook out their wings to fly away. It was in +the breed to do that; it looked out of the eyes of every one. + +"I sent and got a Bible from the mail-order house," said Joan, looking +up with lively eyes. + +"Has it come already?" + +"Charley got it yesterday. I found that story about Jacob and Rachel +and the weak-eyed girl. It's awful short." + +"But it tells a good deal, Joan." + +Joan seemed thinking over how much the short story really told, her +eyes far away on the elusive, ever-receding blue curtain that was down +between her and the world. + +"Yes, it tells a lot," she sighed. "But Jake must not have been very +bright. Well, he was a cowman, anyhow; he wasn't running sheep." + +"I think he went into the sheep business afterwards," Mackenzie said, +diverted by her original comment on the old tale. + +"Yes, when his girls got big enough to do the work!" The resentment of +her hard years was in Joan's voice, the hardness of unforgiving regret +for all that had been taken from her life. + +Mackenzie felt a sweep of depression engulf him like a leaping wave. +Joan was in the humor to profit by any arrangement that would break +her bondage to sheep; Tim Sullivan had been bringing her up, +unconsciously, but none the less effectively, to fit into this scheme +for marrying her to his old friend's rakish son. When the day came for +Joan to know of the arrangement, she would leap toward it as toward an +open door. + +Still, it should not concern him. Once he had believed there was a +budding blossom on his hitherto dry branch of romance; if he had been +so ungenerous as to take advantage of Joan's loneliness and urge the +promise to florescence, they might have been riding down out of the +sheeplands together that day. + +It would have been a venture, too, he admitted. For contact with the +world of men must prove a woman, even as the hardships of the range +must prove a man. Perhaps the unlimited variety displayed before her +eyes would have made Joan dissatisfied with her plain choice. + +At that moment it came to him that perhaps Joan was to be tested and +proved here, even as he was being tested in Tim Sullivan's balance for +his fitness to become a master over sheep. Here were two fair samples +of men out of the world's assorted stock--himself and Reid. One of +them, deliberate, calm, assured of his way, but with little in his +hand; the other a grig that could reel and spin in the night-lights, +and flutter to a merry tune. + +With Mackenzie the rewards of life would come to her slowly, but with +a sweet savor of full understanding and appreciation as they were won. +Many of them most desired might never be attained; many more might be +touched and withdrawn in the mockery that fate practices so +heartlessly upon men. Reid could convey her at once over the rough +summits which men and women wear their hearts threadbare to attain. +With Reid the journey would begin where, with the best hoping, it must +in his own company almost end. + +"It was unlucky for Earl that he killed Matt Hall," said Joan, taking +up another thread of thought in her discursive, unfixed humor of that +day. + +"It's unfortunate for any man to have to kill another, I guess. But it +has to be done sometimes." + +"Matt deserved it, all right--he ought have been killed for his mean +face long ago--but it's turned Earl's head, haven't you noticed? He +thinks he's got one foot on each side of this range, herdin' everybody +between his legs." + +"He'll get over it in a little while." + +"He's not got brains enough to hold him down when the high winds begin +to blow. If he's a fair sample of what they've got in Omaha, I'll +cross it off my map when I begin to travel." + +"Dad says he's got the lonesomeness." + +"More of the cussedness." + +Her words warmed Mackenzie like a precious cordial. At every one of +them in derogation of Reid his heart jumped, seeming to move him by +its tremendous vibration a little nearer to her. He felt that it was +traitorous exultation at the expense of one who had befriended him to +a limit beyond which it is hard for a man to go, but he could not +drown the exhilaration of a reborn hope in even the deepest waters of +his gratitude. + +Somebody ought to tell Joan what they had designed for her in company +with Earl Reid; somebody ought to tell her, but it was not his place. +It was strange that she had read the young man's weakness so readily. +Mackenzie had noted more than once before in his life that those who +live nearest to nature are the most apt in reading all her works. + +"He'll never stay here through a winter," Joan predicted, with +certainty that admitted no argument. "Give him a touch of twenty-two +below, and a snow on a high wind, and send him out to bed down the +sheep where it'll blow over them! I can see him right now. You'll do +it, all right, and I'll have to, like I have done many a time. But +we're not like Earl. Earl's got summer blood." + +Mackenzie took her hand, feeling it tremble a little, seeing her face +grow pale. The sun was red on the hill, the sheep were throwing long +shadows down the slope as they grazed lazily, some of them standing on +knees to crop the lush bunch grass. + +"Yes, Joan, you and I are of different blood," he said. "We are of the +blood of the lonesome places, and we'll turn back to them always from +our wandering and seeking contentment among the press of men. He can't +have you--Earl Reid can't have you--ever in this world!" + +So it was out, and from his own mouth, and all his reserve was +nothing, and his silent pledging but as an idle word. Joan was looking +at him with wide and serious eyes. + +"Earl Reid?" + +"Earl Reid," he nodded. "I'd be a coward to give you up to him." + +Joan was not trembling now. She put her free hand over Mackenzie's +where it gripped her fingers so hard that Earl Reid might have been on +the opposite side of her, trying to rive her away from him by force; +she looked up into his eyes and smiled. And there were flecks of +golden brown in Joan's eyes, like flakes of metal from her rich hair. +They seemed to increase, and to sparkle like jewels struck through +placid water by strong sunbeams as she looked up into his face. + +"I thought dad had made some kind of a deal with him," she said, +nodding in her wise way, a truant strand of hair on her calm forehead. +"They didn't tell me anything, but I knew from the way dad looked at +me out of the corners of his eyes that he had a trade of some kind on. +Tell me about it, John." + +There was no explanation left to Mackenzie but the degrading truth, +and he gave it to her as Tim Sullivan had given it to him. + +"They had their nerve!" said Joan, flushed with resentment. + +"It's all off, as far as it affects you and me," Mackenzie said, +fetching his brows together in a frown of denial. "Reid can't have +you, not even if he comes into two million when the old man dies." + +"No," said Joan softly, her hand stroking his, her eyes downcast, the +glow of the new-old dawn upon her cheek; "there's only room for one +Jacob on this range." + +"I thought I owed it to Reid, as a matter of honor between men, to +step aside and let him have you, according to the plan. But that was a +mistake. A man can't pay his debts by robbing his heart that way." + +"I saw something was holding you back, John," said the wise Joan. + +Mackenzie started as if she had thrust him with a needle, felt his +telltale blood flare red in his face, but grinned a little as he +turned to her, meeting her eye to eye. + +"So, you saw through me, did you, Joan?" + +"When you called me Rachel that day." + +"I nearly told you that time," he sighed. + +"You might have, John," said she, a bit accusingly; "you didn't owe +him anything then--that was before he came." + +"I respected you too much to take advantage of your coming to me that +way for your lessons day by day, Joan. I had to fight to keep it +back." + +"I tried to pull it out of you," Joan said, as serious as a penitent, +although there was a smile breaking on her lips as she turned her face +away. + +"I'd never want to do anything, or say anything, that would lower your +respect for me one little degree, Joan," he said, still clinging to +her hand as though he feared he had not quite won her, and must hold +her fast by his side for the final word. + +"I know you wouldn't, John," said she, her voice shaking a little, and +low beneath her breath. + +"I wouldn't want to--to--go as far as Jacob went that first time he +saw Rachel," said he in desperation, his grip tightening on her +fingers, sweat bursting on his brow. "I wouldn't want to--I'd _want_ +to, all right, but I wouldn't even--even----" + +Joan looked up at him with calm, placid eyes, with pale cheeks, with +yearning lips, a flutter in her heart that made her weak. She nodded, +anxious to help him to his climax, but not bold, not bolder than +himself, indeed, and he was shaking like a sick man in the sun. + +"Unless I could make it holy, unless you could understand it so, I +wouldn't even--I wouldn't so much as----" He took her face between his +hands, and bent over her, and a glad little sob trembled between +Joan's lips as she rested her hands on his shoulders for the +benediction of his kiss. + +Joan did not stay to help him bring in the sheep that day, for there +was nothing left for her to wonder over, or stand wistfully by her +saddle waiting to receive. Neither was there any sound of weeping as +she rode up the hill, for the male custom of expressing joy in that +way had gone out of fashion on the sheep ranges of this world long +before John Mackenzie's day. + +Nothing that he could owe a man could equal what he had gained that +hour, Mackenzie thought, standing there with heart as light as the +down of cottonwood. With his great debt paid to Earl Reid, even to +the measure of his own life, he would still leave the world a rich +man. He had come into the fresh pastures of romance at last. + +Joan waved him good-bye from the hilltop and went on, the understanding +of his fortune growing on him as he recalled her eyes in that moment +when she closed them to his salute upon her lips. She gave up that +first kiss that she ever had yielded to any man as though he had +reached down and plucked it out of her heart. + +Let them go on planning for years of labor, let them go on scheming +for inheritances, and piece their broken arrangements together as they +might when they found he had swept Joan out of their squalid +calculations as a rider stoops and lifts a kerchief from the ground. +There would be bitterness and protestations, and rifts in his own +bright hopes, as well. + +But if Tim Sullivan would not give her up to him with the good grace +of a man, Mackenzie said, smiling and smiling like a daft musician, he +would take her from both of them and ride away with her into the +valleys of the world which she was so hungry in her young heart to +behold. + +He rounded his sheep to their hillside, and made his fire, a song in +his heart, but his lips sealed, for he was a silent man. And at dusk +there came riding into his camp a man, whose coat was at his cantle, +who was belted with pistols, who roved his eye with cautious look as +he halted and gave the shepherd good evening. Mackenzie invited him +down to the hospitality of the camp, which the stranger accepted with +hearty grace. + +"I was lookin' for a young feller by the name of Reid; you're not the +man," the stranger said with finality, after one more shrewd look into +Mackenzie's face. + +"My name's Mackenzie--Reid's running a band of sheep for the same +outfit about five miles east of here." + +The stranger said nothing more, being busy at that moment unsaddling +his horse, which he hobbled and turned to graze. He came over to the +fire where Mackenzie was baking biscuits in a tilted pan, and sat +down, dusty from his day's ride. + +"I'm the sheriff of this county," he announced, not going into the +detail of his name. Mackenzie nodded his acknowledgment, the sheriff +keeping his hungry eye on the pan. "I took a cut across here from +servin' some subpoenas in a murder case on some fellers up on Farewell +Creek," he explained, "to see how that feller Reid's behavin'." + +"I haven't heard any complaint," Mackenzie told him, wondering why +this official interest. The sheriff seemed satisfied with what he +heard, and made no further inquiry or explanation until after he had +eaten his supper. As he smoked a cracked cigar which he took from the +pocket of his ornate vest, he talked. + +"I didn't know anything about that boy when Sullivan put him in here +on the range," he said, "but the other day I got a letter from the +sheriff in Omaha askin' me to keep my eye on him. The news of Reid's +killin' Matt Hall got over to Omaha. You know Reid, he's under +sentence of three years in the pen." + +"I didn't know." + +"Yeah. Daddy got him paroled to Sullivan's sheep ranch to serve it. +If he breaks over here he goes to the pen. That's the way _he_ +stands." + +"In that case, he'll more than likely stay it out." + +"He will if he's wise. He's been a kind of a streak of wildness, the +sheriff in Omaha said. Sent me his full history, three pages. Married +somebody a year or so ago, but the old man got him out of that by +buyin' off the girl. Then he started out forgin', and pushed it so +hard the old man refused to make good any more. But he didn't want to +see the kid go to the pen, and he's here. I got to keep my eye on him +to see he don't break over." + +The sheriff stretched out when he had finished his cigar and went to +sleep in a blanket provided by his host. He was up with dawn, ready to +resume his journey. Mackenzie pressed him to stay for breakfast, but +he said he wanted to make a start before the sun and reach Sullivan's +ranch-house. + +"Does Sullivan know how things stand with Reid?" Mackenzie inquired. + +"I reckon he must. If he don't he soon will. Kind of watch that +feller, will you, and slip me word if he shows any signs of streakin' +out of the country." + +"No, I've got my eye full looking after two thousand sheep. That's up +to Sullivan, he's responsible for Reid." + +The sheriff turned a sharp look of suspicion on Mackenzie, but said +nothing. He led his horse down to the little stream for water, and +came leading it back, a cast of disfavor in his face. + +"You're a bad bunch up in here," he said, "you and Carlson and Hall. +If there's any more killin' and fightin' up this way I'll come in and +clean you all out. Where did you say that feller was at?" + +Mackenzie told him again, and he rode off to take a look at Reid, +and put what caution into his ear he had a mind to give. Mackenzie +saw him blend into the gloom of early morning with a feeling of +self-felicitation on his act of yesterday. He was inspired yesterday +when he took Joan under his protection and laid claim to her in his +own right. + + + + +CHAPTER XVI + +REID BEGINS HIS PLAY + + +Dad Frazer came back after five days, diminished in facial outline on +account of having submitted his stubble beard to the barber at Four +Corners. In reverse of all speculation on Mackenzie's part, this +operation did not improve the old man's appearance. Dad's face was one +of the kind that are built to carry a beard; without it his weaknesses +were too apparent to the appraising eye. + +Dad made glowing report of his success with the widow at Four Corners. +Preliminaries were smoothed; he had left the widow wearing his ring. + +"We'll jump the broomstick in about a month from now," Dad said, full +of satisfaction for his business stroke. "I aim to settle down and +quit my roamin', John." + +"And your marrying, too, I hope, you old rascal!" + +"Yes, this one will be my last, I reckon. I don't mind, though; I've +had doin's enough with women in my day." + +"Is she a good looker, Dad?" + +"Well, I've seen purtier ones and I've seen uglier ones, John. No, she +ain't what you might call stylish, I guess, but she's all right for +me. She's a little off in one leg, but not enough to hurt." + +"That's a slight blemish in a lady with money in the bank, Dad." + +"I look at it that way, on the sensible side. Good looks is all right +in a woman, but that ain't all a man needs to make him easy in his +mind. Well, she did lose the sight of her left eye when she was a +girl, but she can see a dollar with the other one further than I can +see a wagon wheel." + +"No gentleman would stop at the small trifle of an eye. What else, +Dad?" + +"Nothing else, only she's carryin' a little more meat right now than a +woman likes to pack around in hot weather. I don't mind that; you +know, I like mine fat; you can't get 'em too fat for me." + +"I've heard you say so. How much does she weigh?" + +"Well, I guess close to three hundred, John. If she was taller, it +wouldn't show so much on her--she can walk under my arm. But it's +surprisin' how that woman can git around after them sheep!" + +Dad added this hopefully, as if bound to append some redeeming trait +to all her physical defects. + +"How many does she own?" + +"About four thousand. Not much of a band, but a lot more than I ever +could lay claim to. She's got a twelve-thousand acre ranch, owns every +foot of it, more than half of it under fence. What do you think of +that? Under fence! Runs them sheep right inside of that bull-wire +fence, John, where no wolf can't git at 'em. There ain't no bears down +in that part of the country. Safe? Safer'n money in the bank, and no +expense of hirin' a man to run 'em." + +"It looks like you've landed on a feather bed, Dad." + +"Ain't I? What does a man care about a little hobble, or one eye, or +a little chunk of fat, when he can step into a layout like that?" + +"Why didn't you lead her up to the hitching-rack while you were there? +Somebody else is likely to pick your plum while your back's turned." + +"No, I don't reckon. She's been on the tree quite a spell; she ain't +the kind you young fellers want, and the old ones is most generally +married off or in the soldiers' home. Well, she's got a little cross +of Indian and Mexican in her, anyway; that kind of keeps 'em away, you +know." + +It was no trouble to frame a mental picture of Dad's inamorata. Black, +squat, squint; a forehead a finger deep, a voice that would carry a +mile. Mackenzie had seen that cross of Mexican and Indian blood, with +a dash of debased white. They were not the kind that attracted men +outside their own mixed breed, but he hadn't a doubt that this one was +plenty good enough, and handsome enough, for Dad. + +Mackenzie left the old man with this new happiness in his heart, +through which a procession of various-hued women had worn a path +during the forty years of his taking in marriage one month and taking +leave the next. Dad wasn't nervous over his prospects, but calm and +calculative, as became his age. Mackenzie went smiling now and then as +he thought of the team the black nondescript and the old fellow would +make. + +He found Reid sitting on a hilltop with his face in his hands, surly +and out of sorts, his revolver and belt on the ground beside him as if +he had grown weary of their weight. He gave a short return to +Mackenzie's unaffected greeting and interested inquiry into the +conduct of the sheep and the dogs during his absence. + +Reid's eyes were shot with inflamed veins, as if he had been sitting +all night beside a smoky fire. When Mackenzie sat near him the wind +bore the pollution of whisky from his breath. Reid made a show of +being at his ease, although the veins in his temples were swollen in +the stress of what must have been a splitting headache. He rolled a +cigarette with nonchalance almost challenging, and smoked in silence, +the corners of his wide, salamander mouth drawn down in a peculiar +scoffing. + +"I suppose that guy told you the whole story," he said at last, +lifting his eyes briefly to Mackenzie's face. + +"The sheriff, you mean?" + +"Who else?" impatiently. + +"I don't know whether he told me all or not, but he told me plenty." + +"And you've passed it on to Joan by now!" + +"No." + +Reid faced around, a flush over his thin cheeks, a scowl in his eyes. +He took up his belt; Mackenzie marked how his hands trembled as he +buckled it on. + +"Well, you keep out of it, you damned pedagogue!" Reid said, the words +bursting from him in vehement passion. "This is my game; I'll play it +without any more of your interference. You've gone far enough with +her--you've gone too far! Drop it; let her alone." + +Mackenzie got up. Reid stood facing him, his color gone now, his face +gray. Mackenzie held him a moment with stern, accusing eyes. Then: + +"Have you been over there spying on me?" + +Reid passed over the question, leaving Mackenzie to form his own +conclusions. His face flushed a little at the sting of contempt that +Mackenzie put into his words. He fumbled for a match to light his stub +of cigarette before he spoke: + +"I played into your hands when I let you go over there, and you knew +I'd play into them when you proposed it. But that won't happen +twice." + +"I'll not allow any man to put a deliberately false construction on my +motives, Reid," Mackenzie told him, hotly. "I didn't propose going +over to let Dad off, and you know it. I wanted you to go." + +"You knew I wouldn't," Reid returned, with surly word. + +"If you've been leaving the sheep to go over there and lie on your +belly like a snake behind a bush to spy on Joan and me, and I guess +you've been doing it, all right--you're welcome to all you've found +out. There aren't any secrets between Joan and me to keep from +anybody's eyes or ears." + +Reid jerked his thin mouth in expression of derision. + +"She's green, she's as soft as cheese. Any man could kiss her--I could +have done it fifteen minutes after I saw her the first time." + +If Reid hoped to provoke a quarrel leading up to an excuse for making +use of the gun for which his hand seemed to itch, he fell short of his +calculations. Mackenzie only laughed, lightly, happily, in the way of +a man who knew the world was his. + +"You're a poor loser, Earl," he said. + +"I'm not the loser yet--I'm only takin' up my hand to play. There +won't be room on this range for you and me, Mackenzie, unless you step +back in your schoolteacher's place, and lie down like a little lamb." + +"It's a pretty big range," Mackenzie said, as if he considered it +seriously; "I guess you can shift whenever the notion takes you. You +might take a little vacation of about three years back in a certain +state concern in Nebraska." + +"Let that drop--keep your hands off of that! You don't know anything +about that little matter; that damned sheriff don't know anything +about it. If Sullivan's satisfied to have me here and give me his +girl, that's enough for you." + +"You don't want Joan," said Mackenzie, speaking slowly, "you only want +what's conditioned on taking her. So you'd just as well make a +revision in your plans right now, Reid. You and Sullivan can get +together on it and do what you please, but Joan must be left out of +your calculations. I realize that I owe you a good deal, but I'm not +going to turn Joan over to you to square the debt. You can have my +money any day you want it--you can have my life if you ever have to +draw on me that far--but you can't have Joan." + +Mackenzie walked away from Reid at the conclusion of this speech, +which was of unprecedented length for him, and of such earnestness +that Reid was not likely to forget it soon, no matter for its length. +The dogs left Reid to follow him. + +That Reid had been fraternizing with Swan Carlson, Mackenzie felt +certain, drinking the night out with him in his camp. Carlson had a +notoriety for his addiction to drink, along with his other unsavory +traits. With Reid going off in two different directions from him, +Mackenzie saw trouble ahead between them growing fast. More than +likely one of them would have to leave the range to avoid a clash at +no distant day, for Reid was in an ugly mood. Loneliness, liquor, +discontent, native meanness, and a desire to add to the fame in the +sheep country that the killing of Matt Hall had brought him, would +whirl the weak fellow to his destruction at no distant day. + +Yet Reid had stood by him like a man in that fight with Matt Hall, +when he could have sought safety in withdrawal and left him to his +unhappy end. There was something coming to him on that account which a +man could not repudiate or ignore. Whatever might rise between them, +Mackenzie would owe his life to Reid. Given the opportunity, he stood +ready and anxious to square the debt by a like service, and between +men a thing like that could not be paid in any other way. + +Reid remained a while sitting on the hilltop where Mackenzie had found +him, face in his hands, as before. After a time he stretched out and +went to sleep, the ardent sun of noonday frying the lees of Swan +Carlson's whisky out of him. Toward three o'clock he roused, got his +horse, saddled it, and rode away. + +Mackenzie believed he was going to hunt more whisky, and went to the +rise of a ridge to see what course he took. But instead of striking +for Carlson's, Reid laid a course for Sullivan's ranch-house. Going to +Tim with a complaint against him, Mackenzie judged, contempt for his +smallness rising in him. Let him go. + +Tim Sullivan might give him half his sheep if he liked him well +enough, but he could not give him Joan. + + + + +CHAPTER XVII + +HERTHA CARLSON + + +Swan Carlson or his woman was running a band of sheep very close to +the border of Tim Sullivan's lease. All afternoon Mackenzie had heard +the plaint of lambs; they had lifted their wavering chorus all during +Joan's lesson, giving her great concern that Carlson designed +attempting a trespass on her father's land. + +Joan had come shortly after Reid's unexplained departure, and had gone +back to her flock again uninformed of Reid's criminal career. +Mackenzie felt that he did not need the record of his rival to hold +Joan out of his hands. The world had changed around for him amazingly +in the past few days. Where the sheeplands had promised little for him +but a hard apprenticeship and doubtful rewards a little while ago, +they now showered him with unexpected blessings. + +He ruminated pleasantly on this sudden coming round the corner into +the fields of romance as he went to the top of the hill at sunset to +see what Swan Carlson was about. Over in the next valley there spread +a handful of sheep, which the shepherd was ranging back to camp. +Mackenzie could not make sure at that distance whether the keeper was +woman or man. + +Reid had not returned when Mackenzie plodded into camp at dusk. His +absence was more welcome, in truth, than his company; Mackenzie hoped +he would sulk a long time and stay away until he got his course in +the sheep country plainly before his eyes. If he stayed his three +years there it would be on account of sheep, and whatever he might win +in his father's good graces by his fidelity. Joan was not to figure +thenceforward in any of his schemes. + +Three years on the sheep range with no prospect of Joan! That was what +Reid had ahead of him now. + +"I think I'd take mine in the pen," Mackenzie said, leaning back to +comfort with his pipe. Night came down; the dogs lay at his feet, +noses on forepaws. Below him the sheep were still. So, for a long +time, submerged in dreams. + +One of the dogs lifted its head, its bristles rising, a low growl in +its throat. The other rose cautiously, walking away crouching, with +high-lifted feet. Mackenzie listened, catching no noise to account for +their alarm. A little while, and the sound of Hertha Carlson's singing +rose from the hill behind him, her song the same, the doleful quality +of its air unmodified. + + _Na-a-fer a-lo-o-one, na-a-fer a-lone, + He promise na-fer to leafe me, + Na-fer to leafe me a-lone!_ + +"Strange how she runs on that," Mackenzie muttered, listening for her +to repeat, as he had heard her the night her singing guided him to her +melancholy door. A little nearer now the song sounded, the notes +broken as if the singer walked, stumbling at times, so much sadness in +it, so much longing, such unutterable hopelessness as to wring the +listener's heart. + +Swan was beating her again, neglecting her, subjecting her to the +cruelties of his savage mind; there was no need for the woman to come +nearer to tell him that. Only grief for which there was no comfort, +despair in which there was no hope, could tune a human note to that +eloquent expression of pain. Perhaps she was wandering in the night +now for the solace of weariness, pouring out the three lines of her +song in what seemed the bitterness of accusation for a promise +unfulfilled. + +The dogs came back to Mackenzie's side, where they sat with ears +lifted, but with no expression of hostility or alarm in their bearing +now. They were only curious, as their master was curious, waiting to +see if the wandering singer would come on into camp. + +There was no glow of lantern to guide her, and no moon, but she came +straight for where Mackenzie sat. A little way off she stopped. + +"Hello!" she hailed, as if uncertain of her welcome. + +Mackenzie requested her to come on, lighting the lantern which he had +ready to hand. Mrs. Carlson hesitated, drawing back a little when she +saw his face. + +"I thought it was Earl," she said. + +"Earl's not here tonight. Sit down and rest yourself, Mrs. Carlson. +You don't remember me?" + +"I remember. You are the man who cut my chain." + +"I thought you'd forgotten me." + +"No, I do not forget so soon. A long time I wanted to kill you for the +blow you gave Swan that night." + +"As long as Swan was good to you," said he, "of course you would. How +do you feel about it now?" + +"I only cry now because he did not die. He was different a little +while after he got well, but again he forgets. He beats me; he leaves +me alone with the sheep." + +"I knew he was beating you again," Mackenzie nodded, confirming his +speculation of a little while before. + +"Sheep!" said she. "Swan thinks only of sheep; he is worse since he +bought Hall's flock. It is more than I can endure!" + +Mrs. Carlson was worried and worn, fast losing all she had gained in +flesh and color during Swan's period of kindness when she had thrown +herself into his wild ways and ridden the range like a fighting woman +at his side. Much of her comeliness remained in her sad face and +great, luminous, appealing eyes, for it was the comeliness of +melancholy which sorrow and hard usage refined. She would carry her +grace with her, and the pale shred of her youthful beauty, down to the +last hard day. But it was something that Swan was insensible to; it +could not soften his hand toward her, nor bend his wild thoughts to +gentleness. Now he had denied her again the little share he had +granted her in his wild life, and must break the thing he had made, +going his morose way alone. + +"I hadn't heard he'd bought Hall's sheep," Mackenzie said. "Is he +going to run them on this range?" + +"No, he says I shall go there, where the wolves are many and bold, +even by daylight, to watch over them. There I would be more alone than +here. I cannot go, I cannot go! Let him kill me, but I will not go!" + +"He's got a right to hire a man to run them; he can afford it." + +"His money grows like thistles. Where Swan touches the earth with the +seed of it, money springs. Money is a disease that he spreads when he +walks, like the scales that fall from a leper. Money! I pray God night +and day that a plague will sweep away his flocks, that a thief will +find his hiding place, that a fire will burn the bank that locks in +his gold, and make him poor. Poor, he would be kind. A man's proud +heart bends down when he is poor." + +"God help you!" said Mackenzie, pitying her from the well of his +tender heart. + +"God is deaf; he cannot hear!" she said, bitter, hopeless, yet +rebellious against the silence of heaven and earth that she could not +penetrate with her lamentations and bring relief. + +"No, you shouldn't let yourself believe any such thing," he chided, +yet with a gentleness that was almost an encouragement. + +"This land is a vacuum, out of which sound cannot reach him, then," +she sighed, bending her sad head upon her hands. "I have cried out to +him in a sorrow that would move a stone on the mountain-side, but God +has not heard. Yes, it must be that this land is a vacuum, such as I +read of when I was a girl in school. Maybe--" looking up with eager +hopefulness--"if I go out of it a little way, just on the edge of it +and pray, God will be able to hear my voice?" + +"Here, as well as anywhere," he said, moved by her strange fancy, by +the hunger of her voice and face. + +"Then it is because there is a curse on me--the curse of Swan's money, +of his evil ways!" She sprang up, stretching her long arms wildly. "I +will pray no more, no more!" she cried. "I will curse God, I will +curse him as Job cursed him, and fling myself from the rocks and +die!" + +Mackenzie was on his feet beside her, his hand on her shoulder as if +he would stay her mad intention. + +"No, no!" he said, shocked by the boldness of her declaration. "Your +troubles are hard enough to bear--don't thicken them with talk like +this." + +She looked at him blankly, as if she did not comprehend, as though her +reason had spent itself in this rebellious outbreak against the unseen +forces of her sad destiny. + +"Where is your woman?" she asked. + +"I haven't any woman." + +"I thought she was your woman, but if she is not, Swan can have her. +Swan can have her, then; I do not care now any more. Swan wants her, +he speaks of her in the night. Maybe when he takes her he will set me +free." + +Mrs. Carlson sat again near the lantern, curling her legs beneath her +with the facility of a dog, due to long usage of them in that manner, +Mackenzie believed, when chained to the wall in her lonely house among +the trees. Mackenzie stood a little while watching her as she sat, +chin in her hands, pensive and sad. Presently he sat near her. + +"Where is Swan tonight?" he asked. + +"Drinking whisky beside the wagon with Hector Hall. They will not +fight. No." + +"No," he echoed, abstractedly, making a mental picture of Carlson and +Hall beside the sheep-wagon, the light of a lantern on their faces, +cards in their fists, a jug of whisky in the middle ground within +reach from either hand. It was such diversion as Swan Carlson would +enjoy, the night around him as black as the shadows of his own dead +soul. + +"Earl did not come to me this night," she said, complaining in sad +note. "He promised he would come." + +"Has he been going over there to see you?" Mackenzie asked, resentful +of any advantage Reid might be seeking over this half-mad creature. + +"He makes love to me when Swan is away," she said, nodding slowly, +looking up with serious eyes. "But it is only false love; there is a +lie in his eyes." + +"You're right about that," Mackenzie said, letting go a sigh of +relief. + +"He tries to flatter me to tell him where Swan hides the money he +brought from the bank," she said, slowly, wearily, "but him I do not +trust. When I ask him to do what must first be done to make me free, +he will not speak, but goes away, pale, pale, like a frightened +girl." + +"You'd better tell him to stay away," Mackenzie counseled, his voice +stern and hard. + +"But you would not do that," she continued, heedless of his +admonition. She leaned toward him, her great eyes shining in the +light, her face eager in its sorrowful comeliness; she put out her +hand and touched his arm. + +"You are a brave man, you would not turn white and go away into the +night like a wolf to hear me speak of that. Hush! hush! No, no--there +is no one to hear." + +She looked round with fearful eyes, crouching closer to the ground, +her breath drawn in long labor, her hand tightening on his arm. +Mackenzie felt a shudder sweep coldly over him, moved by the tragedy +her attitude suggested. + +"Hush!" she whispered, hand to her mouth. And again, leaning and +peering: "Hush!" She raised her face to him, a great eagerness in her +burning eyes. "Kill him, kill Swan Carlson, kind young man, and set me +free again! You have no woman? I will be your woman. Kill him, and +take me away!" + +"You don't have to kill Swan to get away from him," he told her, the +tragedy dying out of the moment, leaving only pity in its place. "You +can go on tonight--you never need to go back." + +Hertha came nearer, scrambling to him with sudden movement on her +knees, put her arm about his neck before he could read her intention +or repel her, and whispered in his ear: + +"I know where Swan hides the money--I can lead you to the place. Kill +him, good man, and we will take it and go far away from this unhappy +land. I will be your woman, faithful and true." + +"I couldn't do that," he said gently, as if to humor her; "I couldn't +leave my sheep." + +"Sheep, sheep!" said she, bitterly. "It is all in the world men think +of in this land--sheep! A woman is nothing to them when there are +sheep! Swan forgets, sheep make him forget. If he had no sheep, he +would be a kind man to me again. Swan forgets, he forgets!" + +She bent forward, looking at the lantern as if drawn by the blaze, +her great eyes bright as a deer's when it stands fascinated by a +torchlight a moment before bounding away. + +"Swan forgets, Swan forgets!" she murmured, her staring eyes on the +light. She rocked herself from side to side, and "Swan forgets, Swan +forgets!" she murmured, like the burden of a lullaby. + +"Where is your camp?" Mackenzie asked her, thinking he must take her +home. + +Hertha did not reply. For a long time she sat leaning, staring at the +lantern. One of the dogs approached her, bristles raised in fear, +creeping with stealthy movement, feet lifted high, stretched its neck +to sniff her, fearfully, backed away, and composed itself to rest. But +now and again it lifted its head to sniff the scent that came from +this strange being, and which it could not analyze for good or ill. +Mackenzie marked its troubled perplexity, almost as much at sea in his +own reckoning of her as the dog. + +"No, I could not show you the money and go away with you leaving Swan +living behind," she said at last, as if she had decided it finally in +her mind. "That I have told Earl Reid. Swan would follow me to the +edge of the world; he would strangle my neck between his hands and +throw me down dead at his feet." + +"He'd have a right to if you did him that kind of a trick," Mackenzie +said. + +"Earl Reid comes with promises," she said, unmindful of Mackenzie; "he +sits close by me in the dark, he holds me by the hand. But kiss me I +will not permit; that yet belongs to Swan." She looked up, sweeping +Mackenzie with her appealing eyes. "But if you would kill him, then +my lips would be hot for your kiss, brave man--I would bend down and +draw your soul into mine through a long, long kiss!" + +"Hush!" Mackenzie commanded, sternly. "Such thoughts belong to Swan, +as much as the other. Don't talk that way to me--I don't want to hear +any more of it." + +Hertha sat looking at him, that cast of dull hopelessness in her face +again, the light dead in her eyes. + +"There are strange noises that I hear in the night," she said, +woefully; "there is a dead child that never drew breath pressed +against my heart." + +"You'd better go back to your wagon," he suggested, getting to his +feet. + +"There is no wagon, only a canvas spread over the brushes, where I lie +like a wolf in a hollow. A beast I am become, among the beasts of the +field!" + +"Come--I'll go with you," he offered, holding out his hand to lift +her. + +She did not seem to notice him, but sat stroking her face as if to +ease a pain out of it, or open the fount of her tears which much +weeping must have drained long, long ago. + +Mackenzie believed she was going insane, in the slow-preying, brooding +way of those who are not strong enough to withstand the cruelties of +silence and loneliness on the range. + +"Where is your woman?" she asked again, lifting her face suddenly. + +"I have no woman," he told her, gently, in great pity for her cruel +burden under which she was so unmistakably breaking. + +"I remember, you told me you had no woman. A man should have a woman; +he goes crazy of the lonesomeness on the sheep range without a +woman." + +"Will Swan be over tomorrow?" Mackenzie asked, thinking to take her +case up with the harsh and savage man and see if he could not be moved +to sending her away. + +"I do not know," she returned coldly, her manner changing like a +capricious wind. She rose as she spoke, and walked away, disappearing +almost at once in the darkness. + +Mackenzie stood looking the way she went, listening for the sound of +her going, but she passed so surely among the shrubs and over the +uneven ground that no noise attended her. It was as though her failing +mind had sharpened her with animal caution, or that instinct had come +forward in her to take the place of wit, and serve as her protection +against dangers which her faculties might no longer safeguard. + +Even the dogs seemed to know of her affliction, as wild beasts are +believed by some to know and accept on a common plane the demented +among men. They knew at once that she was not going to harm the sheep. +When she left camp they stretched themselves with contented sighs to +their repose. + +And that was "the lonesomeness" as they spoke of it there. A dreadful +affliction, a corrosive poison that gnawed the heart hollow, for which +there was no cure but comradeship or flight. Poor Hertha Carlson was +denied both remedies; she would break in a little while now, and run +mad over the hills, her beautiful hair streaming in the wind. + +And Reid had it; already it had struck deep into his soul, turning him +morose, wickedly vindictive, making him hungry with an unholy ambition +to slay. Joan must have suffered from the same disorder. It was not so +much a desire in her to see what lay beyond the blue curtain of the +hills as a longing for companionship among them. + +But Joan would put away her unrest; she had found a cure for the +lonesomeness. Her last word to him that day was that she did not want +to leave the sheep range now; that she would stay while he remained, +and fare as he fared. + +Rachel must have suffered from the lonesomeness, ranging her sheep +over the Mesopotamian plain; Jacob had it when he felt his heart +dissolve in tears at the sight of his kinswoman beside the well of +Haran. But Joan was safe from it now; its insidious poison would +corrode in her heart no more. + +Poor Hertha Carlson, deserving better than fate had given her with +sheep-mad Swan! She could not reason without violence any longer, so +often she had been subjected to its pain. + +"It will be a thousand wonders if she doesn't kill him herself," +Mackenzie said, sitting down with new thoughts. + +The news of Swan's buying Hall out was important and unexpected. Free +to leave the country now, Hall very likely would be coming over to +balance accounts. There was his old score against Mackenzie for his +humiliation at the hands of the apprentice sheepherder, which +doubtless had grown more bitter day by day; and there was his double +account against Reid and Mackenzie for the loss of his sheep-killing +brother. Mackenzie hoped that he would go away and let matters stand +as they were. + +And Swan. It had not been all a jest, then, when he proposed trading +his woman for Mackenzie's. What a wild, irresponsible, sheep-mad man +he was! But he hardly would attempt any violence toward Joan, even +though he "spoke of her in the night." + +From Carlson, Mackenzie's thoughts ran out after Reid. Contempt rose +in him, and deepened as he thought of the mink-faced youth carrying +his deceptive poison into the wild Norseman's camp. But insane as she +was, racked by the lonesomeness to be away from that unkindly land, +Hertha Carlson remained woman enough to set a barrier up that Reid, +sneak that he was, could not cross. + +What a condition she had made, indeed! Nothing would beguile her from +it; only its fulfilment would bend her to yield to his importunities. +It was a shocking mess that Reid had set for himself to drink some +day, for Swan Carlson would come upon them in their hand-holding in +his hour, as certainly as doom. + +And there was the picture of the red-haired giant of the sheeplands +and that flat-chested, sharp-faced youth drinking beside the +sheep-wagon in the night. There was Swan, lofty, cold, unbending; +there was Reid, the craft, the knowledge of the world's under places +written on his brow, the deceit that he practiced against his host +hidden away in his breast. + +Mackenzie sighed, putting it from him like a nightmare that calls a +man from his sleep by its false peril, wringing sweat from him in its +agony. Let them bind in drink and sever in blood, for all that he +cared. It was nothing to him, any way they might combine or clash. +Joan was his; that was enough to fill his world. + + + + +CHAPTER XVIII + +SWAN CARLSON'S DAY + + +Dad Frazer came over the hills next morning after the dew was gone. +Mackenzie saw him from afar, and was interested to note that he was +not alone. That is to say, not immediately accompanied by anybody, yet +not alone for a country where a quarter of a mile between men is +rather close company. + +Somebody was coming on after the old shepherd, holding about the same +distance behind him in spite of little dashes down slopes that Dad +made when for a moment out of sight. Mackenzie's wonder over this +peculiar behavior grew as the old man came near, and it was discovered +to the eye that his persistent shadow was a woman. + +Dad wasted neither words nor breath on his explanation when he came +panting up the slope that brought him to the place where Mackenzie +stood above his sheep. + +"It's that dad-burned Rabbit!" he said. + +There was something between vexation and respect in Dad's voice. He +turned to look back as he spoke. Rabbit had mounted the hilltop just +across the dip, where she stood looking over at her shifty-footed +lord, two sheep-dogs at her side. + +"How did she locate you?" Mackenzie inquired, not in the least +displeased over this outreaching of justice after the fickle old man. + +"She's been trailin' me four years!" Dad whispered, his respect for +Rabbit's powers on the scent unmistakable. + +"That's a long time to hold a cold trail. Rabbit must be some on the +track!" + +"You can't beat them Indians follerin' a man if they set their heads +to it. Well, it's all off with the widow-lady at Four Corners +now--Rabbit's got me nailed. You see them sheep-dogs? Them dogs they'd +jump me the minute Rabbit winked at 'em--they'd chaw me up like a +couple of lions. She's raised 'em up to do it, dad-burn her! Had my +old vest to learn 'em the scent." + +"A man never ought to leave his old vest behind him when he runs away +from his wife," said Mackenzie, soberly. "But it looks to me like a +woman with the sticking qualities Rabbit's got isn't a bad one to stay +married to. How in the world could a reservation squaw find her way +around to follow you all this time?" + +"She's educated, dang her; she went to the sisters' mission. She can +read and write a sight better than me. She's too smart for a squaw, +bust her greasy eyes! Yes, and I'll never dast to lay a hand on her +with them dogs around. They'd chaw me up quicker'n a man could hang up +his hat." + +Rabbit composed herself after her patient but persistent way, sitting +among the bushes with only her head showing, waiting for Dad's next +move. + +"You're married to her regularly, are you, Dad?" + +"Priest marriage, dang it all!" said Dad, hopelessly. + +"Then it _is_ all off with the one-eyed widow." + +"Yes, and them four thousand sheep, and that range all under fence, +dang my melts!" + +"What are you going to do about Rabbit?" + +"It ain't what am I goin' to do about her, John, but what she's goin' +to do about me. She'll never leave me out of her sight a minute as +long as I live. I reckon I'll have to stay right here and run sheep +for Tim, and that widow-lady wonderin' why I don't show up!" + +"You might do worse, Dad." + +"Yes, I reckon I might. Rabbit she's as good as any man on the range +handlin' sheep, she can draw a man's pay wherever she goes. I guess I +could put her to work, and that'd help some." + +Dad brightened a bit at that prospect, and drew his breath with a new +hope. Even with the widow gone from his calculations, the future +didn't promise all loss. + +"But I bet you I'll shoot them two dogs the first time I can draw a +bead on 'em!" Dad declared. + +"Maybe if you'll treat Rabbit the right way she'll sell them. Call her +over, Dad; I'd like to get acquainted with her." + +Dad beckoned with his hand, but Rabbit did not stir; waved his hat to +emphasize his command; Rabbit remained quiet among the bushes, the top +of her black head in plain view. + +"She's afraid we've hatched up some kind of a trick between us to work +off on her," said Dad. + +"You can't blame her for being a little distrustful, Dad. But let her +go; I'll meet her at your camp one of these days." + +"Yes, you'll meet her over there, all right, for she's goin' to stick +to me till I'm under ground. That's one time too many I married--just +one time too many!" + +"I suppose a man can overdo it; I've heard it said." + +"If I hadn't 'a' left that blame vest!" + +"Yes, that seems to be where you blundered. You'll know better next +time, Dad." + +"Yes, but there never will be no next time," Dad sighed. + +"Have you seen Reid over your way this morning?" + +"No, I ain't seen him. Is he still roamin' and restless?" + +"He left yesterday; I thought he was going to the ranch." + +"Didn't pass my way. That feller's off, I tell you, John; he's one of +the kind that can't stand the lonesomeness. Leave him out here alone +two months, and he'd put a bullet in his eye." + +"It seems to me like it's a land of daftness," Mackenzie said. + +"You'll find a good many cracked people all over the sheep country--I'm +kind o' cracked myself. I must be, or I never would 'a' left that +vest." + +Dad took off his hat to smooth his sweeping curled locks, as white as +shredded asbestos, and full of the same little gleams that mineral +shows when a block of it from the mine is held in the sun. His beard +was whitening over his face again, like a frost that defied the heat +of day, easing its hollows and protuberances, easing some of the +weakness that the barber's razor had laid so pitilessly bare. In a few +days more he would appear himself again, and be ready for the +sheep-shears in due time. + +"I reckon I'll have to make the best of the place I'm in, but for a +man of puncture, as the feller said, like I used to think I was, I +sure did miscombobble it when I married that educated squaw. No woman +I ever was married to in my life ever had sense enough to track a man +like that woman's follered me. She sure is a wonder on the scent." + +Patiently Rabbit was sitting among the bushes, waiting the turn of +events, not to be fooled again, not to be abandoned, if vigilance +could insure her against such distress. Mackenzie's admiration for the +woman grew with Dad's discomfiture over his plight. There was an added +flavor of satisfaction for him in the old man's blighted career. Wise +Rabbit, to have a priest marriage, and wiser still to follow this old +dodger of the sheeplands and bring him up with a short halter in the +evening of his days. + +"I'll go on back and look after them sheep," said Dad, with a certain +sad inflection of resignation; "there's nothing else to _be_ done. I +was aimin' to serve notice on Tim to find another man in my place, but +I might as well keep on. Well, I can set in the shade, anyhow, and let +Rabbit do the work--her and them blame dogs." + +Dad sighed. It helped a great deal to know that Rabbit could do the +work. He looked long toward the spot where his unshaken wife kept her +watch on him, but seemed to be looking over her head, perhaps trying +to measure all he had lost by this coming between him and the one-eyed +widow-lady of Four Corners. + +"I wonder if I could git you to write a letter over to that widow and +tell her I'm dead?" he asked. + +"I'll do it if you want me to. But you're not dead yet, Dad--you may +outlive Rabbit and marry the widow at last." + +"I never was no lucky man," said Dad, smoothing his gleaming hair. "A +man that's married and nailed down to one place is the same as dead; +he might as well be in his grave. If I'd 'a' got that widow-lady I'd +'a' had the means and the money to go ridin' around and seein' the +sights from the end of one of them cars with a brass fence around it. +But I'm nailed down now, John; I'm cinched." + +Dad was so melancholy over his situation that he went off without more +words, a thing unheard of for him. He gave Rabbit a wide fairway as he +passed. When he was a respectable distance ahead the squaw rose from +her bush and followed, such determination in her silent movements as +to make Dad's hope for future freedom hollow indeed. The old man was +cinched at last; Mackenzie was glad that it was so. + +The sound of Carlson's sheep was still near that morning, and coming +nearer, as whoever attended them ranged them slowly along. Mackenzie +went a little way across the hill in that direction, but could not see +the shepherd, although the sheep were spread on the slope just before +him. It was a small flock, numbering not above seven hundred. +Mackenzie was puzzled why Swan wanted to employ his own or his wife's +time in grazing so small a number, when four times as many could be +handled as easily. + +This question was to be answered for him very soon, and in a way which +he never had imagined. Yet there was no foreboding of it in the calm +noonday as he prepared his dinner in the shade of some welcome +willows, the heat glimmering over the peaceful hills. + +It was while Mackenzie sat dozing in the fringe of shade such as a +hedge would cast at noonday that the snarl of fighting dogs brought +him up to a realization of what was going forward among the sheep. His +own flock had drifted like a slow cloud to the point of the long +ridge, and there Swan Carlson's band had joined it. The two flocks +were mingling now, and on the edge of the confused mass his own dogs +and Carlson's were fighting. + +Swan was not in sight; nobody seemed to be looking after the sheep; it +appeared as if they had been left to drift as they might to this +conjunction with Mackenzie's flock. Mackenzie believed Mrs. Carlson +had abandoned her charge and fled Swan's cruelty, but he did not +excuse himself for his own stupidity in allowing the flocks to come +together as he ran to the place where his dogs and Carlson's fought. + +The sheep were becoming more hopelessly mingled through this commotion +on their flank. Mackenzie was beating the enraged dogs apart when Swan +Carlson came running around the point of the hill. + +Swan immediately took part in the mêlée of gnashing, rolling, rearing +dogs, laying about among them with impartial hand, quickly subduing +them to obedience. He stood looking stonily at Mackenzie, unmoved by +anger, unflushed by exertion. In that way he stood silent a little +while, his face untroubled by any passion that rolled in his breast. + +"You're runnin' your sheep over on my grass--what?" said Swan. + +"You're a mile over my range," Mackenzie accused. + +"You've been crowdin' over on me for a month," Swan said, "and I +didn't say nothing. But when a man tries to run his sheep over amongst +mine and drive 'em off, I take a hand." + +"If anybody's tryin' such a game as that, it's you," Mackenzie told +him. "Get 'em out of here, and keep 'em out." + +"I got fifteen hundred in that band--you'll have to help me cut 'em +out," said Swan. + +"You had about seven hundred," Mackenzie returned, dispassionately, +although it broke on him suddenly what the big flockmaster was trying +to put through. + +Counting on Mackenzie's greenness, and perhaps on the simplicity of +his nature as they had read it in the sheep country, Swan had prepared +this trap days ahead. He had run a small band of the same breed as +Sullivan's sheep--for that matter but one breed was extensively grown +on the range--over to the border of Tim's lease with the intention of +mingling them and driving home more than he had brought. Mackenzie +never had heard of the trick being worked on a green herder, but he +realized now how simply it could be done, opportunity such as this +presenting. + +But it was one thing to bring the sheep over and another thing to take +them away. One thing Mackenzie was sure of, and that was the judgment +of his eyes in numbering sheep. That had been Dad Frazer's first +lesson, and the old man had kept him at it until he could come within +a few head among hundreds at a glance. + +"I'll help you cut out as many as you had," Mackenzie said, running +his eyes over the mingled flocks, "they're all alike, one as good as +another, I guess. It looks like you got your stock from this ranch, +anyhow, but you'll not take more than seven hundred this trip." + +"My dogs can cut mine out, they know 'em by the smell," Swan said. "I +had fifteen hundred, and I bet you I'll take fifteen hundred back." + +The dogs had drawn off, each set behind their respective masters, +panting, eyeing each other with hostility, one rising now and then +with growls, threatening to open the battle again. The sheep drifted +about in confusion, so thoroughly mingled now that it would be past +human power to separate them again and apportion each respective head +to its rightful owner. + +"Seven hundred, at the outside," Mackenzie said again. "And keep them +off of my grass when you get 'em." + +Carlson stood where he had stopped, ten feet or more distant, his arms +bare, shirt open on his breast in his way of picturesque freedom. +Mackenzie waited for him to proceed in whatever way he had planned, +knowing there could be no compromise, no settlement in peace. He would +either have to yield entirely and allow Carlson to drive off seven or +eight hundred of Sullivan's sheep, or fight. There didn't seem to be +much question on how it would come out in the latter event, for +Carlson was not armed, and Mackenzie's pistol was that moment under +his hand. + +"You got a gun on you," said Swan, in casual, disinterested tone. "I +ain't got no gun on me, but I'm a better man without no gun than you +are with one. I'm goin' to take my fifteen hundred sheep home with me, +and you ain't man enough to stop me." + +Carlson's two dogs were sitting close behind him, one of them a gaunt +gray beast that seemed almost a purebred wolf. Its jaws were bloody +from its late encounter; flecks of blood were on its gray coat. It sat +panting and alert, indifferent to Mackenzie's presence, watching the +sheep as if following its own with its savage eyes. Suddenly Carlson +spoke an explosive word, clapping his great hands, stamping his foot +toward Mackenzie. + +Mackenzie fired as the wolf-dog sprang, staggering back from the +weight of its lank body hurled against his breast, and fired again as +he felt the beast's vile breath in his face as it snapped close to his +throat. + +Mackenzie emptied his pistol in quick, but what seemed ineffectual, +shots at the other dog as it came leaping at Carlson's command. In an +instant he was involved in a confusion of man and dog, the body of the +wolfish collie impeding his feet as he fought. + +Carlson and the other dog pressed the attack so quickly that Mackenzie +had no time to slip even another cartridge into his weapon. Carlson +laughed as he clasped him in his great arms, the dog clinging to +Mackenzie's pistol hand, and in a desperate moment it was done. +Mackenzie was lying on his back, the giant sheepman's knee in his +chest. + +Carlson did not speak after ordering the dog away. He held Mackenzie a +little while, hand on his throat, knee on his chest, looking with +unmoved features down into his eyes, as if he considered whether to +make an end of him there or let him go his way in added humiliation +and disgrace. Mackenzie lay still under Carlson's hand, trying to read +his intention in his clear, ice-cold, expressionless eyes, watching +for his moment to renew the fight which he must push under such +hopeless disadvantage. + +Swan's eyes betrayed nothing of his thoughts. They were as calm and +untroubled as the sky, which Mackenzie thought, with a poignant sweep +of transcendant fear for his life, he never had beheld so placid and +beautiful as in that dreadful moment. + +Carlson's huge fingers began to tighten in the grip of death; relax, +tighten, each successive clutch growing longer, harder. The joy of his +strength, the pleasure in the agony that spoke from his victim's face, +gleamed for a moment in Carlson's eyes as he bent, gazing; then +flickered like a light in the wind, and died. + +Mackenzie's revolver lay not more than four feet from his hand. He +gathered his strength for a struggle to writhe from under Carlson's +pressing knee. Carlson, anticipating his intention, reached for the +weapon and snatched it, laying hold of it by the barrel. + +Mackenzie's unexpected renewal of the fight surprised Carlson into +releasing his strangling hold. He rose to sitting posture, breast to +breast with the fighting sheepman, whose great bulk towered above him, +free breath in his nostrils, fresh hope in his heart. He fought +desperately to come to his feet, Carlson sprawling over him, the +pistol lifted high for a blow. + +Mackenzie's hands were clutching Carlson's throat, he was on one knee, +swaying the Norseman's body back in the strength of despair, when the +heavens seemed to crash above him, the fragments of universal +destruction burying him under their weight. + + + + +CHAPTER XIX + +NOT CUT OUT FOR A SHEEPMAN + + +Mackenzie returned to conscious state in nausea and pain. Not on a +surge, but slow-breaking, like the dawn, his senses came to him, +assembling as dispersed birds assemble, with erratic excursions as if +distrustful of the place where they desire to alight. Wherever the +soul may go in such times of suspended animation, it comes back to its +dwelling in trepidation and distrust, and with lingering at the door. + +The first connected thought that Mackenzie enjoyed after coming out of +his shock was that somebody was smoking near at hand; the next that +the sun was in his eyes. But these were indifferent things, drowned in +a flood of pain. He put them aside, not to grope after the cause of +his discomfort, for that was apart from him entirely, but to lie, +throbbing in every nerve, indifferent either to life or death. + +Presently his timid life came back entirely, settling down in the old +abode with a sigh. Then Mackenzie remembered the poised revolver in +Swan Carlson's hand. He moved, struggling to rise, felt a sweep of +sickness, a flood of pain, but came to a sitting posture in the way of +a man fighting to life from beneath an avalanche. The sun was directly +in his eyes, standing low above the hill. He shifted weakly to relieve +its discomfort. Earl Reid was sitting near at hand, a few feet above +him on the side of the hill. + +Reid was smoking a cigarette, his hat pushed back, the shadows of his +late discontent cleared out of his face. Below them the sheep were +grazing. They were all there; Mackenzie had wit enough in him to see +that they were all there. + +Reid looked at him with a grin that seemed divided between amusement +and scorn. + +"I don't believe you're cut out for a sheepman, Mackenzie," he said. + +"It begins to look like it," Mackenzie admitted. He was too sick to +inquire into the matter of Reid's recovery of the sheep; the world +tipped at the horizon, as it tips when one is sick at sea. + +"Your hand's chewed up some, Mackenzie," Reid told him. "I think you'd +better go to the ranch and have it looked after; you can take my +horse." + +Mackenzie was almost indifferent both to the information of his hurt +and the offer for its relief. He lifted his right hand to look at it, +and in glancing down saw his revolver in the holster at his side. This +was of more importance to him for the moment than his injury. Swan +Carlson was swinging that revolver to strike him when he saw it last. +How did it get back there in his holster? Where was Carlson; what had +happened to him? Mackenzie looked at Reid as for an explanation. + +"He batted you over the head with your gun--I guess he used your gun, +I found it out there by you," said Reid, still grinning as if he could +see the point of humor in it that Mackenzie could not be expected to +enjoy. + +Mackenzie did not attempt a reply. He looked with a sort of impersonal +curiosity at his hand and forearm, where the dog had bitten him in +several places. That had happened a good while ago, he reasoned; the +blood had dried, the marks of the dog's teeth were bruised-looking +around the edges. + +And the sheep were all there, and Reid was laughing at him in +satisfaction of his disgrace. There was no sound of Swan Carlson's +flock, no sight of the sheepman. Reid had come and untangled what +Mackenzie had failed to prevent, and was sitting there, unruffled and +undisturbed, enjoying already the satisfaction of his added +distinction. + +Perhaps Reid had saved his life from Carlson's hands, as he had saved +it from Matt Hall's. His debt to Reid was mounting with mocking +swiftness. As if in scorn of his unfitness, Reid had picked up his gun +and put it back in its sheath. + +What would Joan say about this affair? What would Tim Sullivan's +verdict be? He had not come off even second best, as in the encounter +with Matt Hall, but defeated, disgraced. And he would have been robbed +in open day, like a baby, if it hadn't been for Reid's interference. +Mackenzie began to think with Dad Frazer that he was not a lucky man. + +Too simple and too easy, too trusting and too slow, as they thought of +him in the sheep country. A sort of kindly indictment it was, but more +humiliating because it seemed true. No, he was not cut out for a +sheepman, indeed, nor for anything but that calm and placid woman's +work in the schoolroom, it seemed. + +Mackenzie looked again at his hand. There was no pain in it, but its +appearance was sufficient to alarm a man in a normal state of +reasonableness. He had the passing thought that it ought to be +attended to, and got up on weaving legs. He might wash it in the +creek, he considered, and so take out the rough of whatever infection +the dog's teeth had driven into his flesh, but dismissed the notion at +once as altogether foolish. It needed bichloride of mercury, and it +was unlikely there was such a thing within a hundred and fifty miles. + +As he argued this matter of antiseptics with himself Mackenzie walked +away from the spot where Reid remained seated, going aimlessly, quite +unconscious of his act. Only when he found himself some distance away +he stopped, considering what to do. His thoughts ran in fragments and +flashes, broken by the throbbing of his shocked brain, yet he knew +that Reid had offered to do something for him which he could not +accept. + +No, he could not place himself under additional obligation to Reid. +Live or die, fail or succeed, Reid should not be called upon again to +offer a supporting hand. He could sit there on the hillside and grin +about this encounter with Carlson, and grin about the hurt in +Mackenzie's hand and arm, and the blinding pain in his head. Let him +grin in his high satisfaction of having turned another favor to +Mackenzie's account; let him grin until his face froze in a grin--he +should not have Joan. + +Mackenzie went stumbling on again to the tune of that declaration. +Reid should not have Joan, he shouldn't have Joan, shouldn't have +Joan! Blind from pain, sick, dizzy, the earth rising up before him as +he walked, Mackenzie went on. He did not look back to see if Reid +came to help him; he would have resented it if he had come, and cursed +him and driven him away. For he should not have Joan; not have Joan; +Joan, Joan, Joan! + +How he found his way to Dad Frazer's camp Mackenzie never could tell. +It was long past dark when he stumbled to the sheep-wagon wherein the +old herder and his squaw lay asleep, arriving without alarm of dogs, +his own collies at his heels. It was the sharp-eared Indian woman who +heard him, and knew by his faltering step that it was somebody in +distress. She ran out and caught him as he fell. + + + + +CHAPTER XX + +A MILLION GALLOPS OFF + + +Joan was returning to camp, weighed down by a somber cloud. Dad Frazer +had carried word to her early that morning of Mackenzie's condition, +the old man divided in his opinion as to whether man or beast had +mauled the shepherd and left him in such melancholy plight. + +"Both man and beast," Rabbit had told Joan, having no division of mind +in the case at all. And so Joan believed it to be, also, after sitting +for hours in the hot sheep-wagon beside the mangled, unconscious +schoolmaster, who did not move in pain, nor murmur in delirium, nor +drop one word from his clenched, still lips to tell whose hand had +inflicted this terrible punishment. + +And the range seemed bent on making a secret of it, also. Dad had gone +hot-foot on Joan's horse to seek Earl Reid and learn the truth of it, +only to ride in vain over the range where Mackenzie's flock grazed. +Reid was not in camp; the sheep were running unshepherded upon the +hills. Now, Joan, heading back to her camp at dusk of the longest, +heaviest, darkest day she ever had known, met Reid as she rode away +from Dad Frazer's wagon, and started out of her brooding to hasten +forward and question him. + +"How did it happen--who did it?" she inquired, riding up breathlessly +where Reid lounged on his horse at the top of the hill waiting for her +to come to him. + +"Happen? What happen?" said Reid, affecting surprise. + +"Mr. Mackenzie--surely you must know something about it--he's nearly +killed!" + +"Oh, Mackenzie." Reid spoke indifferently, tossing away his cigarette, +laughing a little as he shaped the shepherd's name. "Mackenzie had a +little trouble with Swan Carlson, but this time he didn't land his +lucky blow." + +"I thought you knew all about it," Joan said, sweeping him a scornful, +accusing look. "I had you sized up about that way!" + +"Sure, I know all about it, Joan," Reid said, but with a gentle +sadness in his soft voice that seemed to express his pity for the +unlucky man. "I happened to be away when it started, but I got +there--well, I got there, anyhow." + +Joan's eyes were still severe, but a question grew in them as she +faced him, looking at him searchingly, as if to read what it was he +hid. + +"Where have you been all day? Dad's been looking high and low for +you." + +"I guess I was over at Carlson's when the old snoozer came," Reid told +her, easy and careless, confident and open, in his manner. + +"Carlson's? What business could you----" + +"Didn't he tell you about it, Joan?" + +"Who, Dad?" + +"Mackenzie." + +"He hasn't spoken since he stumbled into Dad's camp last night. He's +going to die!" + +"Oh, not that bad, Joan?" Reid jerked his horse about with quick hand +as he spoke, making as if to start down at once to the camp where the +wounded schoolmaster lay. "Why, he walked off yesterday afternoon like +he wasn't hurt much. Unconscious?" + +Joan nodded, a feeling in her throat as if she choked on cold tears. + +"I didn't think he got much of a jolt when Swan took his gun away from +him and soaked him over the head with it," said Reid, regretfully. + +"You were there, and you let him do it!" Joan felt that she disparaged +Mackenzie with the accusation as soon as the hasty words fell from her +tongue, but biting the lips would not bring them back. + +"He needs _somebody_ around with him, but I can't be right beside him +all the time, Joan." + +"Oh, I don't mean--I didn't--I guess he's able to take care of himself +if they give him a show. If you saw it, you can tell me how it +happened." + +"I'll ride along with you," Reid offered; "I can't do him any good by +going down to see him. Anybody gone for a doctor?" + +"Rabbit's the only doctor. I suppose she can do him as much good as +anybody--he'll die, anyhow." + +"He's not cut out for a sheepman," said Reid, ruminatively, shaking +his head in depreciation. + +"I should _hope_ not!" said Joan, expressing in the emphasis, as well +as in the look of superior scorn that she gave him, the difference +that she felt lay between Mackenzie and a clod who might qualify for a +sheepman and no questions asked. + +"I'll ride on over to camp with you," Reid proposed again, facing his +horse to accompany her. + +"No, you mustn't leave the sheep alone at night--it's bad enough to do +it in the day. What was the trouble between him and Swan--who started +it?" + +"Some of Swan's sheep got over with ours--I don't know how it +happened, or whose fault it was. I'd been skirmishin' around a little, +gettin' the lay of the country mapped out in my mind. Swan and +Mackenzie were mixin' it up when I got there." + +"Carlson set his dogs on him!" Joan's voice trembled with her high +scorn of such unmanly dealing, such unworthy help. + +"He must have; one of the dogs was shot, and I noticed Mackenzie's +hand was chewed up a little. They were scuffling to get hold of +Mackenzie's gun when I got there--he'd dropped it, why, you can search +me! Swan got it. He hit him once with it before I could--oh well, I +guess it don't make any difference, Mackenzie wouldn't thank me for +it. He's a surly devil!" + +Joan touched his arm, as if to call him from his abstraction, leaning +to reach him, her face eager. + +"You stopped Swan, you took the gun away from him, didn't you, Earl?" + +"He's welcome to it--I owed him something." + +Joan drew a deep breath, which seemed to reach her stifling soul and +revive it; a softness came into her face, a light of appreciative +thankfulness into her eyes. She reined closer to Reid, eager now to +hear the rest of the melancholy story. + +"You took the gun away from Swan; I saw it in his scabbard down +there. Did you have to--did you have to--do anything to Carlson, +Earl?" + +Reid laughed, shortly, harshly, a sound so old to come from young +lips. He did not meet Joan's eager eyes, but sat straight, head up, +looking off over the darkening hills. + +"No, I didn't do anything to him--more than jam my gun in his neck. He +got away with thirty sheep more than belonged to him, though--I found +it out when I counted ours. I guess I was over there after them when +Dad was lookin' for me today." + +"You brought them back?" Joan leaned again, her hand on his arm, where +it remained a little spell, as she looked her admiration into his +face. + +"Nothing to it," said Reid, modestly, laughing again in his grating +harsh way of vast experience, and scorn for the things which move the +heart. + +"It's a good deal, I think," said she. "But," thoughtfully, "I don't +see what made him drop his gun." + +"You can search me," said Reid, in his careless, unsympathetic way. + +"It might have happened to anybody, though, a dog and a man against +him." + +"Yes, even a better man." + +"A better man don't live," said Joan, with calm decision. + +Reid bent his eyes to the pommel of his saddle, and sat so a few +moments, in the way of a man who turns something in his thoughts. +Then: + +"I guess I'll go on back to the sheep." + +"He may never get well to thank you for what you did, Earl," and +Joan's voice threatened tears in its low, earnest tremolo, "but +I----" + +"Oh, that's all right, Joan." Reid waved gratitude, especially +vicarious gratitude, aside, smiling lightly. "He's not booked to go +yet; wait till he's well and let him do his own talking. Somebody +ought to sneak that gun away from him, though, and slip a twenty-two +in his scabbard. They can't hurt him so bad with that when they take +it away from him." + +"It might have happened to you!" she reproached. + +"Well, it might," Reid allowed, after some reflection. "Sure, it +might," brightening, looking at her frankly, his ingenuous smile +softening the crafty lines of his thin face. "Well, leave him to +Rabbit and Dad; they'll fix him up." + +"If he isn't better tomorrow I'm going for a doctor, if nobody else +will." + +"You're not goin' to hang around there all the time, are you, Joan?" + +Reid's face flushed as he spoke, his eyes made small, as if he looked +in at a furnace door. + +Joan did not answer this, only lifted her face with a quick start, +looking at him with brows lifted, widening her great, luminous, tender +eyes. Reid stroked her horse's mane, his stirrup close to her foot, +his look downcast, as if ashamed of the jealousy he had betrayed. + +"I don't mind the lessons, and that kind of stuff," said he, looking +up suddenly, "but I don't want the girl--oh well, you know as well as +I do what kind of a deal the old folks have fixed up for you and me, +Joan." + +"Of course. I'm going to marry you to save you from work." + +"I thought it was a raw deal when they sprung it on me, but that was +before I saw you, Joan. But it's all right; I'm for it now." + +"You're easy, Earl; dad's workin' you for three good years without +pay. As far as I'm concerned, you'd just as well hit the breeze out of +this country right now. Dad can't deliver the goods." + +"I'm soft, but I'm not that soft, Joan. I could leave here tomorrow; +what's to hold me? And as far as the old man's cutting me out of his +will goes, I could beat it in law, and then have a pile big enough +left to break my neck if I was to jump off the top of it. They're not +putting anything over on me, Joan. I'm sticking to this little old +range because it suits me to stick. I would go tomorrow if it wasn't +for you." + +Reid added this in a low voice, his words a sigh, doing it well, even +convincingly well. + +"I'm sorry," Joan said, moved by his apparent sincerity, "but there's +not a bit of use in your throwing away three years, or even three more +months, of your life here, Earl." + +"You'll like me better when you begin to know me, Joan. I've stood off +because I didn't want to interfere with your studies, but maybe now, +since you've got a vacation, I can come over once in a while and get +acquainted." + +"Earl, it wouldn't be a bit of use." Joan spoke earnestly, pitying him +a little, now that she began to believe him. + +"Why, we're already engaged," he said; "they've disposed of us like +they do princes and princesses." + +"I don't know how they marry them off, but if that's the way, it won't +work on the sheep range," said Joan. + +"We've been engaged, officially, ever since I struck the range, and +I've never once, never even--" He hesitated, constrained by +bashfulness, it seemed, from his manner of bending his head and +plucking at her horse's mane. + +"We're not even officially engaged," she denied, coldly, not pitying +his bashfulness at all, nor bent to assist him in delivering what lay +on the end of his tongue. "You can't pick up a sheepwoman and marry +her off--like some old fool king's daughter." + +Reid placed his hand over hers where it lay idly on the saddle-horn, +the reins loosely held. He leaned closer, his eyes burning, his face +near her own, so near that she shrank back, and drew on her hand to +come free. + +"I don't see why we need to wait three years to get married, Joan," he +argued, his persuasive voice very soft and tender. "If the old man saw +I meant business----" + +"Business!" scorned Joan. + +"Sheep business, I mean, Joan," chidingly, a tincture of injury in his +tone. + +"Oh, sheep business," said Joan, leaning far over to look at the +knotting of her cinch. + +"Sure, to settle down to it here and take it as it comes, the way he +got his start, he'd come across with all the money we'd want to take a +run out of here once in a while and light things up. We ought to be +gettin' the good out of it while we've got an edge on us, Joan." + +Joan swung to the ground, threw a stirrup across the saddle, and began +to tighten her cinch. Reid alighted with a word of protest, offering +his hand for the work. Joan ignored his proffer, with a little +independent, altogether scornful, toss of the head. + +"You can find plenty of them ready to take you up," she said. "What's +the reason you have to stay right here for three years, and then marry +me, to make a million dollars? Can't you go anywhere else?" + +"The old man's picked on this country because he knows your dad, and +he settled on you for the girl because you got into his eye, just the +way you've got into mine, Joan. I was sore enough about it at first to +throw the money and all that went with it to the pigs, and blow out of +here. But that was before I saw you." + +"Oh!" said Joan, in her pettish, discounting way. + +"I mean every word of it, Joan. I can't talk like--like--some men--my +heart gets in the way, I guess, and chokes me off. But I never saw a +girl that I ever lost sleep over till I saw you." + +Joan did not look at him as he drew nearer with his words. She pulled +the stirrup down, lifted her foot to it, and stood so a second, hand +on the pommel to mount. And so she glanced round at him, standing near +her shoulder, his face flushed, a brightness in his eyes. + +Quicker than thought Reid threw his arm about her shoulders, drawing +her to him, his hot cheek against her own, his hot breath on her lips. +Surging with indignation of the mean advantage he had taken of her, +Joan freed her foot from the stirrup, twisting away from the +impending salute, her hand to Reid's shoulder in a shove that sent him +back staggering. + +"I thought you were more of a man than that!" she said. + +"I beg your pardon, Joan; it rushed over me--I couldn't help it." +Reid's voice shook as he spoke; he stood with downcast eyes, the +expression of contrition. + +"You're too fresh to keep!" Joan said, brushing her face savagely with +her hand where his cheek had pressed it for a breath. + +"I'll ask you next time," he promised, looking up between what +seemed hope and contrition. But there was a mocking light in his +sophisticated face, a greedy sneer in his lustful eyes, which Joan +could feel and see, although she could not read to the last shameful +depths. + +"Don't try it any more," she warned, in the cool, even voice of one +sure of herself. + +"I ought to have a right to kiss my future wife," he defended, a +shadow of a smile on his thin lips. + +"There's not a bit of use to go on harping on that, Earl," she said, +in a way of friendly counsel, the incident already past and trampled +under foot, it seemed. "If you want to stay here and work for dad, +three years or thirty years, I don't care, but don't count on me. I +guess if you go straight and prove you deserve it, you'll not need any +girl to help you get the money." + +"It's got to be you--nobody else, Joan." + +"Then kiss your old million--or whatever it is--good-bye!" + +Joan lifted to the saddle as if swept into it by a wave, and drew her +reins tight, and galloped away. + + + + +CHAPTER XXI + +TIM SULLIVAN BREAKS A CONTRACT + + +"And that will be the end of it," said Tim Sullivan, finality in his +tone, his face stern, his manner severe. "I've passed my word to old +Malcolm that you'll have his boy, and have him you will." + +"Boy!" said Joan. + +"In experience he's no lad, and I'm glad you've discovered it," said +Tim, warming a little, speaking with more softness, not without +admiration for her penetration. "He'll be the better able to look +after you, and see they don't get his money away from him like some +simpleton." + +"Oh, they'll get it, all right." + +Tim had arrived that morning from a near-by camp as Joan was about to +set out for Dad Frazer's. From his way of plunging abruptly into this +matter, which he never had discussed with her before, and his +sharpness and apparent displeasure with her, Joan knew that he had +seen Reid overnight. They were beside the sheep-wagon, to a wheel of +which Joan's horse was tied, all saddled and ready to mount. The sun +was already high, for Joan had helped Charley range the flock out for +its day's grazing, and had put all things to rights in the camp, +anxious as her mind was over Mackenzie's state. + +"I'll not have you treat the lad like a beggar come to ask of you, +Joan; I'll not have it at all. Be civil with him; use him kindly when +he speaks." + +"He's a thousand years older than I am; he knows things that you never +heard of." + +"Somebody's been whisperin' slanders of him in your ear. He's a fine +lad, able to hold his own among men, take 'em where they're found. +Don't you heed what the jealous say about the boy, Joan; don't you let +it move you at all." + +"I wouldn't have him if he brought his million in a wheelbarrow and +dumped it at my feet." + +"It's not a million, as I hear it," Tim corrected, mildly, even a bit +thoughtfully, "not more nor a half." + +"Then he's only half as desirable," smiled Joan, the little gleam of +humor striking into her gloomy hour like a sudden ray of sun. + +"You'd run sheep till you was bent and gray, and the rheumatiz' +got set in your j'ints, me gerrel, before you'd win to the half of +half a million. Here it comes to you while you're young, with the +keenness to relish it and the free hand to spend the interest off +of it, and sail over the seas and see the world you're longin' to +know and understand." + +Joan's hat hung on the saddle-horn, the morning wind was trifling with +light breath in her soft, wave-rippled hair. Her brilliant necktie had +been put aside for one of narrower span and more sober hue, a blue +with white dots. The free ends of it blew round to her shoulder, where +they lay a moment before fluttering off to brush her cheek, as if to +draw by this slight friction some of the color back into it that this +troubled interview had drained away. + +She stood with her head high, her chin lifted, determination in her +eyes. Thorned shrubs and stones had left their marks on her strong +boots, the little teeth of the range had frayed the hem of her short +cloth skirt, but she was as fresh to see as a morning-glory in the +sun. Defiance outweighed the old cast of melancholy that clouded her +eyes; her lips were fixed in an expression which was denial in itself +as she stood looking into the wind, her little brown hands clenched at +her sides. + +"I want that you should marry him, as I have arranged it with old +Malcolm," said Tim, speaking slowly to give it greater weight. "I have +passed my word; let that be the end." + +"I've got a right to have a word, too. Nobody else is as much +concerned in it as me, Dad. You can't put a girl up and sell her like +a sheep." + +"It's no sale; it's yourself that comes into the handlin' of the +money." + +Tim took her up quickly on it, a gleam in his calculative eye, as if +he saw a convincing way opening ahead of him. + +"I couldn't do it, Dad, as far as I'd go to please you; I couldn't--never +in this world! There's something about him--something----" + +"It'll wear off; 'tis the strangeness of him, but three years will +bring him closer; it will wear away." + +"It'll never wear away, because he isn't--he isn't _clean_!" + +"Clean?" Tim repeated, turning in amazement as if to seek a witness to +such a preposterous charge. And again: "Clean? He's as fresh as a +daisy, as clean as a lamb." + +"It's the way he seems to me," she insisted, with conviction that no +argument would shake. "I don't know any other name for it--you can see +it in his eyes." + +"Three year here will brace him up, Joan; he'll come to you as fresh +as lumber out of the mill." + +"No, all the wind in the world can't blow it out of him. I can't do +it, I'll never do it!" + +"And me with my word passed to old Malcolm!" Tim seemed to grieve over +it, and the strong possibility of its repudiation; his face fell so +long, his voice so accusing, so low and sad. + +"You'll not lose any money; you can square it up with him some way, +Dad." + +"You've been the example of a dutiful child to me," Tim said, turning +to her, spreading his hands, the oil of blarney in his voice. "You've +took the work of a man off of my hands since you were twelve year old, +Joan." + +"Yes, I have," Joan nodded, a shading of sadness for the lost years of +her girlhood in her tone. She did not turn to face him, her head high +that way, her chin up, her nose in the wind as if her assurance lay in +its warm scents, and her courage came on its caress. + +"You've been the gerrel that's gone out in the storm and the bitter +blast to save the sheep, and stood by them when their poor souls shook +with the fright, and soothed down their panic and saved their lives. +You've been the gerrel that's worked the sheep over this range in rain +and shine, askin' me nothing, not a whimper or a complaint out of +ye--that's what you've been to me, Joan. It's been a hard life for a +lass, it's been a hard and a lonesome life." + +Joan nodded, her head drooping just a little from its proud lift. +Tears were on her face; she turned it a bit to hide them from his +eyes. + +"You mind the time, Joan, four years ago it was the winter past, when +you stood a full head shorter than you stand today, when the range was +snowed in, and the sheep was unable to break the crust that froze over +it, and was huddlin' in the cañons starving wi' the hunger that we +couldn't ease? Heh--ye mind that winter, Joan, gerrel?" + +Joan nodded again, her chin trembling as it dropped nearer to the +fluttering necktie at her warm, round throat. And the tears were +coursing hotter, the well of them open, the stone at the mouth of it +rolled away, the recollection of those harsh days almost too hard to +bear. + +"And you mind how you read in the book from the farmer college how a +handful of corn a day would save the life of a sheep, and tide it over +the time of stress and storm till it could find the grass in under the +snow? Ah-h, ye mind how you read it, Joan, and come ridin' to tell me? +And how you took the wagons and the teams and drove that bitter length +in wind and snow to old Wellfleet's place down on the river, and +brought corn that saved to me the lives of no less than twenty +thousand sheep? It's not you and me, that's gone through these things +side by side, that forgets them in the fair days, Joan, my little +darlin' gerrel. Them was hard days, and you didn't desert me and leave +me to go alone." + +Joan shook her head, the sob that she had been smothering breaking +from her in a sharp, riving cry. Tim, feeling that he had softened +her, perhaps, laid his hand on her shoulder, and felt her body +trembling under the emotion that his slow recital of past hardships +had stirred. + +"It'll not be that you'll leave me in a hole now, Joan," he coaxed, +stroking her hair back from her forehead, his touch gentle as his +heart could be when interest bent it so. + +"I gave you that--all those years that other girls have to themselves, +I mean, and all that work that made me coarse and rough and kept me +down in ignorance--I gave you out of my youth till the well of my +giving has gone dry. I can't give what you ask today, Dad; I can't +give you that." + +"Now, Joan, take it easy a bit, draw your breath on it, take it easy, +gerrel." + +Joan's chin was up again, the tremor gone out of it, the shudder of +sorrow for the lost years stilled in her beautiful, strong body. Her +voice was steady when she spoke: + +"I'll go on working, share and share alike with you, like I'm doing +now, or no share, no nothing, if you want me to, if you need me to, +but I can't--I can't!" + +"I was a hard master over you, my little Joan," said Tim, gently, as +if torn by the thorn of regret for his past blindness. + +"You were, but you didn't mean to be. I don't mind it now, I'm still +young enough to catch up on what I missed--I _am_ catching up on it, +every day." + +"But now when it comes in my way to right it, to make all your life +easy to you, Joan, you put your back up like a catamount and tear at +the eyes of me like you'd put them out." + +"It wouldn't be that way, Dad--can't you see I don't care for him? If +I cared, he wouldn't have to have any money, and you wouldn't have to +argue with me, to make me marry him." + +"It's that stubborn you are!" said Tim, his softness freezing over in +a breath. + +"Let's not talk about it, Dad," she pleaded, turning to him, the tears +undried on her cheeks, the sorrow of the years he had made slow and +heavy for her in her eyes. + +"It must be talked about, it must be settled, now and for good, Joan. +I have plans for you, I have great plans, Joan." + +"I don't want to change it now, I'm satisfied with the arrangement +we've made on the sheep, Dad. Let me go on like I have been, studying +my lessons and looking after the sheep with Charley. I'm satisfied the +way it is." + +"I've planned better things for you, Joan, better from this day +forward, and more to your heart. Mackenzie is all well enough for +teachin' a little school of childer, but he's not deep enough to be +over the likes of you, Joan. I'm thinkin' I'll send you to Cheyenne to +the sisters' college at the openin' of the term; very soon now, you'll +be makin' ready for leavin' at once." + +"I don't want to go," said Joan, coldly. + +"There you'd be taught the true speech of a lady, and the twist of the +tongue on French, and the nice little things you've missed here among +the sheep, Joan darlin', and that neither me nor your mother nor John +Mackenzie--good lad that he is, though mistaken at times, woeful +mistaken in his judgment of men--can't give you, gerrel." + +"No, I'll stay here and work my way out with the sheep," said she. + +Tim was standing at her side, a bit behind her, and she turned a +little more as she denied him, her head so high she might have been +listening to the stars. He looked at her with a deep flush coming into +his brown face, a frown narrowing his shrewd eyes. + +"Ain't you that stubborn, now!" he said. + +"Yes, I am," said Joan. + +"Then," said Tim, firing up, the ashes of deceit blowing from the fire +of his purpose at once, "you'll take what I offer or leave what you've +got! I'll have no more shyin' and shillyin' out of you, and me with my +word passed to old Malcolm Reid." + +Joan wheeled round, her face white, fright in her eyes. + +"You mean the sheep?" she asked. + +"I mean the sheep--just that an' no less. Do as I'll have you do, and +go on to school to be put in polish for the wife of a gentleman, or +give up the flock and the interest I allowed you in the increase, and +go home and scrape the pots and pans!" + +"You'd never do that, Dad--you'd never break your word with me, after +all I've gone through for you, and take my lambs away from me!" + +"I would, just so," said Tim. But he did not have the courage to look +her in the face as he said it, turning away like a stubborn man who +had no cause beneath his feet, but who meant to be stubborn and unjust +against it all. + +"I don't believe it!" she said. + +"I will so, Joan." + +"Your word to Malcolm Reid means a whole lot to you, but your word to +me means nothing!" Joan spoke in bitterness, her voice vibrating with +passion. + +"It isn't the same," he defended weakly. + +"No, you can rob your daughter----" + +"Silence! I'll not have it!" Tim could look at her now, having a +reason, as he saw it. There was a solid footing to his pretense at +last. + +"It's a cheap way to get a thousand lambs," said she. + +"Then I've got 'em cheap!" said Tim, red in his fury. "You'll flout me +and mock me and throw my offers for your good in my face, and speak +disrespectful----" + +"I spoke the truth, no word but the----" + +"I'll have no more out o' ye! It's home you go, and it's there you'll +stay till you can trim your tongue and bend your mind to obey my +word!" + +"You've got no right to take my sheep; you went into a contract with +me, you ought to respect it as much as your word to anybody!" + +"You have no sheep, you had none. Home you'll go, this minute, and +leave the sheep." + +"I hope they'll die, every one of them!" + +"Silence, ye! Get on that horse and go home, and I'll be there after +you to tend to your case, my lady! I'll have none of this chargin' me +to thievery out of the mouth of one of my childer--I'll have none of +it!" + +"Maybe you've got a better name for it--you and old man Reid!" Joan +scorned, her face still white with the cold, deep anger of her wrong. + +"I'll tame you, or I'll break your heart!" said Tim, doubly angry +because the charge she made struck deep. He glowered at her, mumbling +and growling as if considering immediate chastisement. + +Joan said no more, but her hand trembled, her limbs were weak +under her weight with the collapse of all her hopes, as she untied and +mounted her horse. The ruin of her foundations left her in a daze, to +which the surging, throbbing of a sense of deep, humiliating, +shameful wrong, added the obscuration of senses, the confusion of +understanding. She rode to the top of the hill, and there the +recollection of Mackenzie came to her like the sharp concern for a +treasure left behind. + +She reined in after crossing the hilltop, and debated a little while +on what course to pursue. But only for a little while. Always she had +obeyed her father, under injunctions feeling and unfeeling, just and +unjust. He was not watching to see that she obeyed him now, knowing +well that she would do as he had commanded. + +With bent head, this first trouble and sorrow of her life upon her, +and with the full understanding in her heart that all which had passed +before this day was nothing but the skimming of light shadows across +her way, Joan rode homeward. A mile, and the drooping shoulders +stiffened; the bent head lifted; Joan looked about her at the sun +making the sheeplands glad. A mile, and the short breath of anger died +out of her panting lungs, the long, deep inspiration of restored +balance in its place; the pale shade left her cold cheeks, where the +warm blood came again. + +Joan, drawing new hope from the thoughts which came winging to her, +looked abroad over the sunlit sheeplands, and smiled. + + + + +CHAPTER XXII + +PHANTOMS OF FEVER + + +"That was ten or twelve days ago," Dad explained, when Mackenzie found +himself blinking understandingly at the sunlight through the open end +of the sheep-wagon one morning. "You was chawed and beat up till you +was hangin' together by threads." + +Mackenzie was as weak as a young mouse. He closed his eyes and lay +thinking back over those days of delirium through which a gleam of +understanding fell only once in a while. Dad evidently believed that +he was well now, from his manner and speech, although Mackenzie knew +that if his life depended on rising and walking from the wagon he +would not be able to redeem it at the price. + +"I seem to remember a woman around me a good deal," he said, not +trusting himself to look at Dad. "It wasn't--was it----?" + +Mackenzie felt his face flush, and cursed his weakness, but he could +not pronounce the name that filled his heart. + +"Yes, it was Rabbit," said Dad, catching him up without the slightest +understanding of his stammering. "She's been stickin' to you night and +day. I tell you, John, them Indians can't be beat doctorin' a man up +when he's been chawed up by a animal." + +"I want to thank her," Mackenzie said, feeling his heart swing very +low indeed. + +"You won't see much of her now since you've come to your head, I +reckon she'll be passin' you over to me to look after. She's shy that +way. Yes, sir, any time I git bit up by man or beast, or shot up or +knifed, I'll take Rabbit ahead of any doctor you can find. Them +Indians they know the secrets of it. I wouldn't be afraid to stand and +let a rattlesnake bite me till it fainted if Rabbit was around. She +can cure it." + +But Mackenzie knew from the odor of his bandages that Rabbit was not +depending on her Indian knowledge in his case, or not entirely so. +There was the odor of carbolic acid, and he was conscious all along +that his head had been shaved around the wound in approved surgical +fashion. He reasoned that Rabbit went about prepared with the +emergency remedies of civilization, and put it down to her schooling +at the Catholic sisters' hands. + +"Was there anybody--did anybody else come around?" Mackenzie +inquired. + +"Tim's been by a couple of times. Oh, well--Joan." + +"Oh, Joan," said Mackenzie, trying to make it sound as if he had no +concern in Joan at all. But his voice trembled, and life came bounding +up in him again with glad, wild spring. + +"She was over the day after you got hurt, but she ain't been back," +said Dad, with such indifference that he must have taken it for +granted that Mackenzie held no tenderness for her, indeed. "I met +Charley yesterday; he told me Joan was over home. Mary's out here with +him--she's the next one to Joan, you know." + +Mackenzie's day clouded; his sickness fell over him again, taking the +faint new savor out of life. Joan was indifferent; she did not care. +Then hope came on its white wings to excuse her. + +"Is she sick?" he inquired. + +"Who--Mary?" + +"Joan. Is she all right?" + +"Well, if I was married to her I'd give up hopes of ever bein' left a +widower. That girl's as healthy as a burro--yes, and she'll outlive +one, I'll bet money, and I've heard of 'em livin' eighty years down in +Mexico." + +Dad did not appear to be cognizant of Mackenzie's weakness. According +to the old man's pathology a man was safe when he regained his head +out of the delirium of fever. All he needed then was cheering up, and +Dad did not know of any better way of doing that than by talking. So +he let himself go, and Mackenzie shut his eyes to the hum of the old +fellow's voice, the sound beating on his ears like wind against closed +doors. + +Suddenly Dad's chatter ceased. The silence was as welcome as the +falling of a gale to a man at sea in an open boat. Mackenzie heard Dad +leaving the wagon in cautious haste, and opened his eyes to see. +Rabbit was beside him with a bowl of savory-smelling broth, which she +administered to him with such gentle deftness that Mackenzie could not +help believing Dad had libeled her in his story of the accident that +had left its mark upon her face. + +Rabbit would not permit her patient to talk, denying him with uplifted +finger and shake of head when he attempted it. She did not say a word +during her visit, although her manner was only gentle, neither timid +nor shy. + +Rabbit was a short woman, turning somewhat to weight, a little gray in +her black hair, but rather due to trouble than age, Mackenzie +believed. Her skin was dark, her face bright and intelligent, but +stamped with the meekness which is the heritage of women of her race. +The burn had left her marked as Dad had said, the scar much lighter +than the original skin, but it was not such a serious disfigurement +that a man would be justified in leaving her for it as Dad had done. + +When Rabbit went out she drew a mosquito netting over the opening in +the back of the wagon. Mackenzie was certain that Dad had libeled her +after that. There was not a fly in the wagon to pester him, and he +knew that the opening in the front end had been similarly screened, +although he could not turn to see. Grateful to Rabbit, with the almost +tearful tenderness that a sick man feels for those who have ministered +kindly to his pain, Mackenzie lay with his thoughts that first day of +consciousness after his tempestuous season of delirium. + +They were not pleasant thoughts for a man whose blood was not yet +cool. As they surged and hammered in his brain his fever flashed +again, burning in his eyes like a desert wind. Something had happened +to alienate Joan. + +That was the burden of it as the sun mounted with his fever, heating +the enclosed wagon until it was an oven. Something had happened to +alienate Joan. He did not believe her weak enough, fickle enough, to +yield to the allurements of Reid's prospects. They must have +slandered him and driven her away with lies. Reid must have slandered +him; there was the stamp of slander in his wide, thin mouth. + +It would be many days, it might be weeks, before he could go abroad on +the range again to set right whatever wrong had been done him. Then it +would be too late. Surely Joan could not take his blunder into +Carlson's trap in the light of an unpardonable weakness; she was not +so sheep-blind as that. Something had been done outside any act of his +own to turn her face and her sympathies away. + +Consumed in impatience to be up, anxiety for the delay, Mackenzie lay +the throbbing day through like a disabled engine spending its vain +power upon a broken shaft. Kind Rabbit came frequently to give him +drink, to bathe his forehead, to place a cool cloth over his burning +eyes. But Dad did not come again. How much better for his peace if the +garrulous old rascal had not come at all! + +And then with the thought of Joan there came mingling the vexing +wonder of the train of violence that had attended him into the +sheeplands. He had come there to be a master over flocks, not +expecting to encounter any unfriendly force save the stern face of +nature. He had begun to muddle and meddle at the outset; he had +continued to muddle, if not meddle, to the very end. + +For this would be the end. No sheepman would countenance a herder who +could not take care of his flock in summer weather on a bountiful +range. His day was done in that part of the country so far as his +plans of becoming a sharing herdsman went. Earl Reid, a thin, anemic +lad fresh from city life, had come in and made much more a figure of a +man. + +So his fever boiled under the fuel of his humiliating thoughts. The +wagon was a bake-oven, but there was no sweat in him to cool his +parching skin. He begged Rabbit to let him go and lie under the wagon, +where the wind could blow over him, but she shook her head in denial +and pressed him down on the bunk. Then she gave him a drink that had +the bitterness of opium in it, and he threw down his worrying snarl of +thoughts, and slept. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIII + +CONCERNING MARY + + +"Yes, I've heard tell of sheepmen workin' Swan's dodge on one another, +but I never took no stock in it, because I never believed even a +sheepman was fool enough to let anybody put a thing like that over on +him." + +"A sheepman oughtn't to be," Mackenzie said, in the bitterness of +defeat. + +"Swan knew you was an easy feller, and green to the ways of them +tricky sheepmen," said Dad. "You let him off in that first fight with +a little crack on the head when you'd ought to 'a' laid him out for +good, and you let Hector Hall go that time you took his guns away from +him. Folks in here never could understand that; they say it was like a +child playin' with a rattlesnake." + +"It was," Mackenzie agreed. + +"Swan thought he could run them sheep of his over on you and take away +five or six hundred more than he brought, and I guess he'd 'a' done it +if it hadn't been for Reid." + +"It looks that way, Dad. I sure was easy, to fall into his trap the +way I did." + +Mackenzie was able to get about again, and was gaining strength +rapidly. He and Dad were in the shade of some willows along the creek, +where Mackenzie stretched in the indolent relaxation of convalescence, +Dad smoking his miserable old pipe close at hand. + +And miserable is the true word for Dad's pipe, for it was miserable +indeed, and miserable the smell that came out of it, going there full +steam on a hot afternoon of early autumn. Dad always carefully reamed +out the first speck of carbon that formed in his pipe, and kept it +reamed out with boring blade of his pocket knife. He wanted no +insulation against nicotine, and the strength thereof; he was not +satisfied unless the fire burned into the wood, and drew the +infiltrations of strong juice therefrom. When his charge of tobacco +burned out, and the fire came down to this frying, sizzling +abomination of smells at last, Dad beamed, enjoying it as a sort of +dessert to a delightful repast of strong smoke. + +Dad was enjoying his domestic felicity to the full these days of +Mackenzie's convalescence. Rabbit was out with the sheep, being needed +no longer to attend the patient, leaving Dad to idle as he pleased. +His regret for the one-eyed widow seemed to have passed, leaving no +scar behind. + +"Tim don't take no stock in it that Swan planned before to do you out +of a lot of your sheep. He was by here this morning while you was +wanderin' around somewhere." + +"He was by, was he?" + +"Yeah; he was over to see Reid--he's sent him a new wagon over there. +Tim says you and Swan must both 'a' been asleep and let the two bands +stray together, and of course it was human for Swan to want to take +away more than he brought. Well, it was sheepman, anyhow, if it wasn't +human." + +"Did Sullivan say that?" + +"No, that's what I say. I know 'em; I know 'em to the bone. Reid knew +how many sheep him and you had, and he stuck out for 'em like a little +man. More to that feller than I ever thought he had in him." + +"Yes," Mackenzie agreed. He lay stretched on his back, squinting at +the calm-weather clouds. + +"Yeah; Tim says both of you fellers must 'a' been asleep." + +"I suppose he'll fire me when he sees me." + +"No, I don't reckon he will. Tim takes it as a kind of a joke, and +he's as proud as all git-out of the way Reid stacked up. If that boy +hadn't happened up when he did, Swan he'd 'a' soaked you another one +with that gun of yourn and put you out for good. They say that kid +waltzed Swan around there and made him step like he was standin' on a +red-hot stove." + +"Did anybody see him doing it?" + +"No, I don't reckon anybody did. But he must 'a' done it, all right, +Swan didn't git a head of sheep that didn't belong to him." + +"It's funny how Reid arrived on the second," Mackenzie said, +reflecting over it as a thing he had pondered before. + +"Well, it's natural you'd feel a little jealous of him, John--most any +feller would. But I don't think he had any hand in it with Swan to run +him in on you, if that's what you're drivin' at." + +"It never crossed my mind," said Mackenzie, but not with his usual +regard for the truth. + +"I don't like him, and I never did like him, but you've got to hand it +to him for grit and nerve." + +"Has he got over the lonesomeness?" + +"Well, he's got a right to if he ain't." + +"Got a right to? What do you mean?" + +Dad chuckled, put both hands to the back of his head, smoothed his +long, bright hair. + +"I don't reckon you knew when you was teachin' Joan you was goin' to +all that trouble for that feller," he said. + +"Sullivan told me him and old man Reid had made an agreement +concerning the young folks," Mackenzie returned, a sickness of dread +over him for what he believed he was about to hear. + +"Oh, Tim told you, did he? Never said nothin' to me about it till this +mornin'. He's goin' to send Joan off to the sisters' school down at +Cheyenne." + +Mackenzie sat up, saying nothing for a good while. He sat looking at +the ground, buried in his thoughts as deep as a grave. Dad turned +curious eyes upon him, but yet not eyes which probed to the secret of +his heart or weighed his loss. + +"I guess I didn't--couldn't teach her enough to keep her here," +Mackenzie said. + +"You could teach her a danged sight more than she could remember. I +think Tim and her had a spat, but I'm only guessin' from what Charley +said. Reid was at the bottom of it, I'll bet a purty. That feller was +afraid you and Joan might git to holdin' hands out here on the range +so much together, heads a touchin' over them books." + +Mackenzie heard the old man as the wind. No, he had not taught Joan +enough to keep her in the sheeplands; she had not read deeply enough +into that lesson which he once spoke of as the easiest to learn and +the hardest to forget. Joan's desire for life in the busy places had +overbalanced her affection for him. Spat or no spat, she would have +come to see him more than once in his desperate struggle against death +if she had cared. + +He could not blame her. There was not much in a man who had made a +failure of even sheepherding to bind a maid to him against the +allurements of the world that had been beckoning her so long. + +"Tim said he'd be around to see you late this evening or tomorrow. +He's went over to see how Mary and Charley're makin' out, keepin' his +eye on 'em like he suspicioned they might kill a lamb once in a while +to go with their canned beans." + +"All right," said Mackenzie, abstractedly. + +Dad looked at him with something like scorn for his inattention to +such an engrossing subject. Mackenzie was not looking his way; his +thoughts seemed to be a thousand leagues from Tim Sullivan's range and +the lambs on it, let them be alive or slaughtered to go with canned +beans. + +But Joan would come back to the sheeplands, as she said everybody came +back to them who once had lived in their silences and breathed their +wide freedom. She would come back, not lost to him, but regained, her +lesson learned, not to go away with that youth who wore the brand of +old sins on his face. So hope came to lift him and assure him, just +when he felt the somber cloud of the lonesomeness beginning to engulf +his soul. + +"I know Tim don't like it, but me and Rabbit butcher lambs right +along, and we'll keep on doin' it as long as we run sheep. A man's got +to have something besides the grub he gits out of tin cans. That ain't +no life." + +"You're right, Dad. I'd been in a hole on the side of some hill before +now if it hadn't been for the broth and lamb stew Rabbit fed me. +There's nothing like it." + +"You right they ain't!" said Dad, forgetting Mackenzie's lapse of a +little while before. "I save the hides and turn 'em over to him, and +he ain't got no kick. If I was them children I'd butcher me a lamb +once a week, anyhow. But maybe they don't like it--I don't know. I've +known sheepmen that couldn't go mutton, never tasted it from one year +to another. May be the smell of sheep when you git a lot of 'em in a +shearin' pen and let 'em stand around for a day or two." + +But what had they told Joan that she would go away without a word, +leaving him in a sickness from which he might never have turned again? +Something had been done to alienate her, some crafty libel had been +poured into her ears. Let that be as it might, Joan would come back, +and he would wait in the sheeplands for her, and take her by the hand +and clear away her troubled doubts. The comfort of this thought would +drive the lonesomeness away. + +He would wait. If not in Tim Sullivan's hire, then with a little flock +of his own, independent of the lords of sheep. He would rather remain +with Sullivan, having more to prove now of his fitness to become a +flockmaster than at the beginning. Sullivan's doubt of him would have +increased; the scorn which he could not quite cover before would be +open now and expressed. They had no use in the sheeplands for a man +who fought and lost. They would respect him more if he refused to +fight at all. + +Dad was still talking, rubbing his fuzzy chin with reflective hand, +looking along the hillside to where Rabbit stood watch over the +sheep. + +"Tim wanted to buy that big yellow collie from Rabbit," he said. +"Offered her eighty dollars. Might as well try to buy me from that +woman!" + +"I expect she'd sell you quicker than she would the collie, Dad." + +"Wish she would sell that dang animal, he never has made friends with +me. The other one and me we git along all right, but that feller he's +been educated on the scent of that old vest, and he'll be my enemy to +my last day." + +"You're a lucky man to have a wife like Rabbit, anyhow, dog or no dog. +It's hard for me to believe she ever took a long swig out of a whisky +jug, Dad." + +"Well, sir, me and Rabbit was disputin' about that a day or so ago. +Funny how I seem to 'a' got mixed up on that, but I guess it wasn't +Rabbit that used to pull my jug too hard. That must 'a' been a Mexican +woman I was married to one time down by El Paso." + +"I'll bet money it was the Mexican woman. How did Rabbit get her face +scalded?" + +"She tripped and fell in the hog-scaldin' vat like I told you, John." + +Mackenzie looked at him severely, almost ready to take the convalescent's +prerogative and quarrel with his best friend. + +"What's the straight of it, you old hide-bound sinner?" + +Dad changed hands on his chin, fingering his beard with scraping +noise, eyes downcast as if a little ashamed. + +"I guess it was me that took a snort too many out of the jug that day, +John," he confessed. + +"Of course it was. And Rabbit tripped and fell into the tub trying to +save you from it, did she?" + +"Well, John, them fellers said that was about the straight of it." + +"You ought to be hung for running away from her, you old hard-shelled +scoundrel!" + +Dad took it in silence, and sat rubbing it into his beard like a +liniment. After a while he rose, squinted his eye up at the sun with a +quick turn of his head like a chicken. + +"I reckon every man's done something he ought to be hung for," he +said. + +That ended it. Dad went off to begin supper, there being potatoes to +cook. Sullivan had sent a sack of that unusual provender out to camp +to help Mackenzie get his strength back in a hurry, he said. + +Tim himself put in his appearance at camp a little later in the day, +when the scent of lamb stew that Dad had in the kettle was streaming +over the hills. Tim could not resist it, for it was seasoned with wild +onions and herbs, and between the four of them they left the pot as +clean as Jack Spratt's platter, the dogs making a dessert on the +bones. + +Dad and Rabbit went away presently to assemble the sheep for the +night, and Tim let his Irish tongue wag as it would. He was in lively +and generous mood, making a joke of the mingling of the flocks which +had come so dearly to Mackenzie's account. He bore himself like a man +who had gained something, indeed, and that was the interpretation put +on it by Mackenzie. + +Tim led up to what he had come to discuss presently, beaming with stew +and satisfaction when he spoke of Joan. + +"Of course you understand, John, I don't want you to think it was any +slam on you that I took Joan off the range and made her stop takin' +her book lessons from you. That girl got too fresh with me, denyin' my +authority to marry her to the man I've picked." + +Mackenzie nodded, a great warmth of understanding glowing in his +breast. + +"But I don't want you to feel that it was any reflection on your +ability as a teacher, you understand, John; I don't want you to look +at it that way at all." + +"Not at all," Mackenzie echoed, quite sincerely. + +"You could 'a' had her, for all the difference it was to me, if I +hadn't made that deal with Reid. A man's got to stick to his word, you +know, lad, and not have it thwarted by any little bobbin of a girl. +I'd as soon you'd have one of my girls as any man I know, John." + +"Thanks." + +"Of course I could see how it might turn out between you and Joan if +she kept on ridin' over to have lessons from you every day. You can't +blame Earl if he saw it the same way, lad." + +"She isn't his yet," said Mackenzie confidently. + +"Now look here, John"--Sullivan spoke with a certain sharpness, a +certain hardness of dictation in his tone, "you'd just as well stand +out of it and let Earl have her." + +Mackenzie's heart swung so high it seemed to brush the early stars. It +was certain now that Joan had not gone home without a fight, and that +she had not remained there throughout his recovery from his wounds +without telling protest. More confidently than before he repeated: + +"She isn't his yet!" + +"She'll never get a sheep from me if she marries any other man--not +one lone ewe!" + +"How much do you value her in sheep?" Mackenzie inquired. + +"She'll get half a million dollars or more with Earl. It would take a +lot of sheep to amount to half a million, John." + +"Yes," said Mackenzie, with the indifference of a man who did not have +any further interest in the case, seeing himself outbid. "That's +higher than I'll ever be able to go. All right; let him have her." But +beneath his breath he added the condition: "If he can get her." + +"That's the spirit I like to see a man show!" Tim commended. "I don't +blame a man for marryin' into a sheep ranch if he can--I call him +smart--and I'd just as soon you as any man'd marry one of my girls, as +I said, John. But you know, lad, a man can't have them that's sealed, +as the Mormons say." + +"You're right," Mackenzie agreed, and the more heartily because it was +sincere. If he grinned a little to himself, Tim did not note it in the +dusk. + +"Now, there's my Mary; she's seventeen; she'll be a woman in three +years more, and she'll make two of Joan when she fills out. My Mary +would make the fine wife for a lad like you, John, and I'll give you +five thousand sheep the day you marry her." + +"All right; the day I marry Mary I'll claim five thousand sheep." + +Mackenzie said it so quickly, so positively, that Tim glowed and +beamed as never before. He slapped the simpleton of a schoolmaster who +had come into the sheeplands to be a great sheepman on the back with +hearty hand, believing he had swallowed hook and all. + +"Done! The day you marry Mary you'll have your five thousand sheep +along wi' her! I pass you my word, and it goes." + +They shook hands on it, Mackenzie as solemn as though making a +covenant in truth. + +"The day I marry Mary," said he. + +"It'll be three years before she's old enough to take up the weight of +carryin' babies, and of course you understand you'll have to wait on +her, lad. A man can't jump into these things the way he buys a +horse." + +"Oh, sure." + +"You go right on workin' for me like you are," pursued Tim, drunk on +his bargain as he thought it to be, "drawin' your pay like any hand, +without favors asked or given, takin' the knocks as they come to you, +in weather good and bad. That'll be a better way than goin' in shares +on a band next spring like we talked; it'll be better for you, lad; +better for you and Mary." + +"All right," Mackenzie assented. + +"I'm thinkin' only of your own interests, you see, lad, the same as if +you was my son." + +Tim patted Mackenzie's shoulder again, doubtless warm to the bottom of +his sheep-blind heart over the prospect of a hand to serve him three +years who would go break-neck and hell-for-leather, not counting +consequences in his blind and simple way, or weather or hardships of +any kind. For there was Mary, and there were five thousand sheep. As +for Joan, she was out of Tim's reckoning any longer. He had a new +Jacob on the line, and he was going to play him for all he was worth. + +"All right; I've got a lot to learn yet," Mackenzie agreed. + +"You have, you have that," said Tim with fatherly tenderness, "and +you'll learn it like a book. I always said from the day you come you +had in you the makin' of a sheepman. Some are quick and some are slow, +but the longer it takes to learn the harder it sticks. It's been that +way wi' me." + +"That's the rule of the world, they say." + +"It is; it is so. And you can put up a good fight, even though you may +not always hold your own; you'll be the lad to wade through it wi' +your head up and the mornin' light on your face. Sure you will, boy. +I'll be tellin' Mary." + +"I'd wait a while," Mackenzie said, gently, as a man who was very soft +in his heart, indeed. "I'd rather we'd grow into it, you know, easy, +by gentle stages." + +"Right you are, lad, right you are. Leave young hearts to find their +own way--they can't miss it if there's nobody between them. I'll say +no word to Mary at all, but you have leave to go and see her as often +as you like, lad, and the sooner you begin the better, to catch her +while she's young. How's your hand?" + +"Well enough." + +"When you think you're able, I'll put you back with the sheep you had. +I'll be takin' Reid over to the ranch to put him in charge of the +hospital band." + +"I'm able to handle them now, I think." + +"But take your time, take it easy. Reid gets on with Swan, bein' more +experienced with men than you, I guess. Well, a schoolteacher don't +meet men the way other people do; he's shut up with the childer all +the day, and he gets so he measures men by them. That won't do on the +sheep range, lad. But I guess you're findin' it out." + +"I'm learning a little, right along." + +"Yes, you've got the makin' of a sheepman in you; I said you had it in +you the first time I put my eyes on your face. Well, I'll be leavin' +you now, lad. And remember the bargain about my Mary. You'll be a +sheepman in your own way the day you marry her. When a man's marryin' +a sheep ranch what difference is it to him whether it's a Mary or a +Joan?" + +"No difference--when he's marrying a sheep ranch," Mackenzie +returned. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIV + +MORE ABOUT MARY + + +Mackenzie took Tim at his word two days after their interview, and +went visiting Mary. He made the journey across to her range more to +try his legs than to satisfy his curiosity concerning the substitute +for Joan so cunningly offered by Tim in his Laban-like way. He was +pleased to find that his legs bore him with almost their accustomed +vigor, and surprised to see the hills beginning to show the yellow +blooms of autumn. His hurts in that last encounter with Swan Carlson +and his dogs had bound him in camp for three weeks. + +Mary was a smiling, talkative, fair-haired girl, bearing the +foundation of a generous woman. She had none of the shyness about her +that might be expected in a lass whose world had been the sheep range, +and this Mackenzie put down to the fact of her superior social +position, as fixed by the size of Tim Sullivan's house. + +Conscious of this eminence above those who dwelt in sheep-wagons or +log houses by the creek-sides, Tim's girls walked out into their world +with assurance. Tim had done that much for them in rearing his mansion +on the hilltop, no matter what he had denied them of educational +refinements. Joan had gone hungry on this distinction; she had +developed the bitterness that comes from the seeds of loneliness. This +was lacking in Mary, who was all smiles, pink and white in spite of +sheeplands winds and suns. Mary was ready to laugh with anybody or at +anybody, and hop a horse for a twenty-mile ride to a dance any night +you might name. + +Mackenzie made friends with her in fifteen minutes, and had learned at +the end of half an hour that friend was all he might ever hope to be +even if he had come with any warmer notions in his breast. Mary was +engaged to be married. She told him so, as one friend to another, +pledging him to secrecy, showing a little ring on a white ribbon about +her neck. Her Corydon was a sheepman's son who lived beyond the +Sullivan ranch, and could dance like a butterfly and sing songs to the +banjo in a way to melt the heart of any maid. So Mary said, but in her +own way, with blushes, and wide, serious eyes. + +Mackenzie liked Mary from the first ingenuous word, and promised to +hold her secret and help her to happiness in any way that a man might +lift an honorable hand. And he smiled when he recalled Tim Sullivan's +word about catching them young. Surely a man had to be stirring early +in the day to catch them in the sheeplands. Youth would look out for +its own there, as elsewhere. Tim Sullivan was right about it there. He +was wiser than he knew. + +Mary was dressed as neatly as Joan always dressed for her work with +the sheep. And she wore a little black crucifix about her neck on +another ribbon which she had no need to conceal. When she touched it +she smiled and smiled, and not for the comfort of the little cross, +Mackenzie understood, but in tenderness for what lay beneath it, and +for the shepherd lad who gave it. There was a beauty in it for him +that made the glad day brighter. + +This fresh, sprightly generation would redeem the sheeplands, and +change the business of growing sheep, he said. The isolation would go +out of that life; running sheep would be more like a business than a +penance spent in heartache and loneliness. The world could not come +there, of course. It had no business there; it should not come. But +they would go to it, those young hearts, behold its wonders, read its +weaknesses, and return. And there would be no more straining of the +heart in lonesomeness such as Joan had borne, and no more discontent +to be away. + +"I hoped you'd marry Joan," said Mary, with a sympathetic little sigh. +"I don't like Earl Reid." + +"Mary?" said Mackenzie. Mary looked up inquiringly. "Can you keep a +secret for me, Mary?" + +"Try me, John." + +"I _am_ going to marry Joan." + +"Oh, you've got it all settled? Did Joan wear your ring when she went +home?" + +"No, she didn't wear my ring, Mary, but she would have worn it if I'd +seen her before she was sent away." + +"I thought you were at the bottom of it, John," the wise Mary said. +"You know, dad's taken her sheep away from her, and she had a +half-interest in at least a thousand head." + +"I didn't know that, but it will not make any difference to Joan and +me. But why hasn't she been over to see me, Mary?" + +"Oh, dad's sore at her because she put her foot down flat when she +heard it was fixed for her to marry Earl. She told dad to take his +sheep and go to the devil--she was going to go away and work somewhere +else. He made her go home and stay there like a rabbit in a +box--wouldn't let her have a horse." + +"Of course; I might have known it. I wonder if she knows I'm up?" + +"She knows, all right. Charley slips word to her." + +"Charley's a good fellow, and so are you," Mackenzie said, giving Mary +his hand. + +"You'll get her, and it's all right," Mary declared, in great +confidence. "It'll take more than bread and water to tame Joan." + +"Is that all they're giving her?" + +"That's dad's idea of punishment--he's put most of us on bread and +water one time or another. But mother has ideas of her own what a kid +ought to have to eat." + +Mary smiled over the recollection, and Mackenzie joined her. Joan +would not grow thin with that mother on the job. + +They talked over the prospects ahead of Joan and himself in the most +comfortable way, leaving nothing unsaid that hope could devise or +courage suggest. A long time Mackenzie remained with his little +sister, who would have been dear to him for her own sweet sake if she +had not been dearer because of her blood-tie to Joan. When he was +leaving, he said: + +"If anybody gets curious about my coming over to see you, Mary, you +might let them think I'm making love to you. It would help both of +us." + +Mary turned her eyes without moving her head, looking at him across +her nose in the arch way she had, and smiled with a deep knowingness. + +"Not so bad!" said she. + +They let it go at that, understanding each other very well indeed. + +Mackenzie returned to Dad's camp thinking that the way to becoming a +flockmaster was a checkered one, and filled with more adventures, +harsh and gentle, than he ever had believed belonged to his +apportionment in life. But he could not blame Tim Sullivan for placing +Reid above him in rating on account of the encounters they had shared, +or for bending down a bit in his manner, or taking him for a soft one +who could be led into long labors on the promise of an uncertain +reward. + +Truly, he had been only second best all the way through, save for that +"lucky blow," as Tim called it, that had laid Swan out in the first +battle. Now Swan and he were quits, a blow on each side, nobody debtor +any more, and Reid was away ahead of anybody who had figured in the +violence that Mackenzie had brought into the sheeplands with him as an +unwelcome stranger lets in a gust of wind on a winter night. + +In spite of all this, the vocation of sheepman never appeared so full +of attractive possibilities to Mackenzie as it looked that hour. All +his old calculations were revived, his first determination proved to +him how deeply it had taken root. He had come into the sheep country +to be a flockmaster, and a flockmaster he would be. Because he was +fighting his way up to it only confirmed him in the belief that he was +following a destined course, and that he should cut a better figure +in the end, somehow, than he had made at the beginning. + +Tim Sullivan thought him simple; he looked at him with undisguised +humor in his eyes, not taking the trouble to turn his back when he +laughed. And they had taken Joan away out of his hands, like a +gold-piece snatched from a child. But that was more to his credit than +his disgrace, for it proved that they feared him more than they +scorned him, let them laugh as they might. + +But it was time for him to begin putting the credits over on the other +side of the book. Mackenzie took it up with Dad Frazer that evening, +Rabbit sitting by in her quiet way with a nod and a smile now and then +when directly addressed. + +"I don't think you're able to go over there and let that feller off," +Dad objected. "You can't tell about Swan; he may come round lookin' +for more trouble, and you not half the man you was before him and that +dog chawed you up that way." + +"I think I'll make out, Dad. I'll keep my eyes open this time, +anyhow." + +"He may not be able to slip up on you any more, but if he crowds a +fuss where'll you be at, with that hand hardly able to hold a gun?" + +"It will be different this time if he does. I'm going back to the +sheep in the morning, Dad. I've got to get busy, and keep busy if I +ever make good at this game." + +Dad grunted around his pipestem, his charge being burned down to the +wood, and the savor too sweet on his tongue to lose even a whiff by +giving room for a word in the door of his mouth. Presently the fire +fried and blubbered down in the pipe to the last atrocious smell, and +there followed the noise of more strong twist-tobacco being milled +between the old shepherd's rasping palms. Rabbit toddled off to bed +without a word; Dad put a match to his new charge, the light making +him blink, discovering his curiously sheared face with its picturesque +features strong, its weakness under the shadows. + +"What did you think of Mary?" he inquired, free to discuss the ladies, +now Rabbit was gone. + +"Mary's a little bit of all right, Dad." + +"Yes, and not such a little bit, either. Mary's some chunk of a girl; +she'll grow up to a woman that suits my eye. You could do worse than +set your cap for that little lady, it seems to me, John." + +"Any man could. She's got a lively eye, and wise head, too, if I'm not +away off." + +"She looks soft when you first glance her, but she's as deep as a +well. Mary ain't the build of a girl that fools a man and throws him +down. Now, you take Joan, a kind of a high-headed touch-me-not, with +that gingerbread hair and them eyes that don't ever seem to be in +fifty-five mile of you when you're talkin' to her. I tell you, the man +that marries her's got trouble up his sleeve. He'll wake up some +morning and find her gone off with some other man." + +"What makes you think that, Dad?" + +"Not satisfied with what she's got, always lookin' off over the hill +like a breachy cow calculatin' on how much better the grazin'd be if +she could hop the fence and go tearin' off over there. Joan ain't the +kind that settles down to nuss babies and make a man a home. Mary is. +That's the difference between them two girls." + +"Maybe you're right about it, Dad--I expect you are. You ought to know +women if any man does." + +"Well, neither one of 'em ain't a woman in the full meanin' of the +word," Dad reflected, "but they've got the marks on 'em of what +they'll turn out to be. The man that marries Mary he'll play safe; the +feller that gits Joan takes on a gamble. If she ever does marry Reid +he'll not keep her seven months. Shucks! I married a red-headed woman +one time back in Oklahomey, and that blame woman run off with a +horse-doctor inside of three months. I never did hear tell of that +fool woman any more." + +"I don't agree with you on the way you've got Joan sized up, no +difference if your wife did run off with a horse-doctor. Her hair +ain't red, anyway." + +"Might as well be. You ain't so much of a hand at readin' people, +anyhow, John; before you marry you ought to see a fortune-teller and +have your hand read. You got away off on Reid, holdin' up for him +agin' my judgment when he first come here on the range--don't you +remember?" + +"I didn't want to pass judgment on him in advance; that was all, +Dad." + +"Course, you couldn't be expected to know men and women like us +fellers that's batted around among 'em all our lives, and you shut up +with a houseful of kids teachin' 'em cipherin' and spellin'. I never +did see a schoolteacher in my life, man or woman, that you couldn't +take on the blind side and beat out of their teeth, not meanin' any +disrespect to you or any of 'em, John." + +"Oh, sure not. I understand what you mean." + +"I mean you're too trustful, too easy to take folks at their word. +You're kids in your head-works, and you always will be. I advise you +strong, John, to have somebody read your hand." + +"Even before marrying Mary?" + +"We-el-l, you _might_ be safe in marryin' Mary. If I'd 'a' had my hand +read last spring before I come up here to this range I bet I'd 'a' +missed the trap I stumbled into. I'd 'a' been warned to look out for a +dark woman, like I was warned once before, and I bet you a dime I'd +'a' _looked_ out, too! Oh, well, it's too late now. I guess I was +fated." + +"Everybody's fated; we're all branded." + +"I've heard it said, and I'm beginnin' to believe it. Well, I don't +know as I'd 'a' been any better off if I'd 'a' got that widow-lady. +Rabbit ain't so bad. She can take care of me when I git old, and maybe +she'll treat me better'n a stranger would." + +"Don't you have any doubt about it in the world. It was a lucky day +for you when Rabbit found you and saved you from the Four Corners +widow." + +"Yes, I expect that woman she'd 'a' worked me purty hard--she had a +drivin' eye. But a feller's got one consolation in a case where his +woman ribs him a little too hard; the road's always open for him to +leave, and a woman's nearly always as glad to see a man go as he is to +git away." + +"There's no reason why it shouldn't work both ways. But fashions are +changing, Dad; they go to the divorce courts now." + +"That costs too much, and it's too slow. Walk out and leave the door +standin' open after you; that's always been my way. They keep a +lookin' for you to come back for a month or two; then they marry some +other man. Well, all of 'em but Rabbit, I reckon." + +"She was the one that remembered." + +"That woman sure is some on the remember, John. Well, I ought 'a' had +my hand read. A man's a fool to start anything without havin' it +done." + +Dad nursed his regret in silence, his face dim in the starlight. +Mackenzie was off with his own thoughts; they might have been miles +apart instead of two yards, the quiet of the sheeplands around them. +Then Dad: + +"So you're thinkin' of Mary, are you, John?" + +Mackenzie laughed a little, like an embarrassed lover. + +"Well, I've got my eye on her," he said. + +"No gamble about Mary," Dad said, in deep earnestness. "Give her a +couple of years to fill out and widen in and you'll have a girl +that'll do any man's eyes good to see. I thought for a while you had +some notions about Joan, and I'm glad to see you've changed your mind. +Joan's too sharp for a trustin' feller like you. She'd run off with +some wool-buyer before you'd been married a year." + + + + +CHAPTER XXV + +ONE MAN'S JOKE + + +Mackenzie went across the hills next morning to relieve Reid of his +watch over the sheep, feeling almost as simple as Dad and the rest of +them believed him to be. He was too easy, he had been too easy all +along. If he had beaten Hector Hall into a blue lump that day he sent +him home without his guns; if he had pulled his weapon at Swan +Carlson's first appearance when the giant Swede drove his flock around +the hill that day, and put a bullet between his eyes, Tim Sullivan and +the rest of them would have held him in higher esteem. + +Reid would have held him in greater respect for it, also, and it might +not have turned out so badly for Joan. He wondered how Reid would +receive him, and whether they would part in no greater unfriendliness +than at present. + +Reid was not with the sheep when Mackenzie arrived where they fed. The +flock was widely scattered, as if the shepherd had been gone a long +time, the dogs seemingly indifferent to what befell, showing a spirit +of insubordination and laziness when Mackenzie set them about their +work. Mackenzie spent the morning getting the flock together, noting +its diminished numbers with quickly calculating eye. + +Reid must have been leaving the sheep pretty much to themselves for +the wolves to take that heavy toll. Strange that Sullivan had not +noticed it and put a trustworthy herder in charge. But Sullivan was +more than a little afraid to show himself for long on that part of his +lease, and perhaps had not taken the time to run his eye over the +sheep. It was a matter to be laid before his attention at once. +Mackenzie did not want this loss charged against him as another +example of his unfitness to become a master over sheep on the +profit-sharing plan. + +It was past noon when Reid returned, coming riding from Swan Carlson's +range. He came only near enough to Mackenzie to see who it was, +galloping on to the wagon. There he unsaddled his horse and turned it +to graze, setting about immediately to get his dinner. Mackenzie +waited for a summons when the meal was ready, but received none. +Presently he saw that Reid had no intention of calling him in, for he +was sitting down selfishly alone. + +Mackenzie determined there was not going to be any avoidance on his +part. If unpleasantness must rise between them Reid would be the one +to set it stewing, and it looked from a distance as if this were his +intention. Mackenzie went to camp, his coat on his arm. + +Reid had finished his dinner when Mackenzie arrived. He was sitting in +the shade of some low bushes, his hat on the ground, smoking a +cigarette. He looked up at the sound of Mackenzie's approach, smiling +a little, waving his cigarette in greeting. + +"Hello, Jacob," he said. + +Mackenzie felt the hot blood rush to his face, but choked down +whatever hot words rose with it. But he could not suppress the +indignation, the surprise, that came with the derisive hail. It seemed +that the range, vast, silent, selfish, melancholy as it was, could not +keep a secret. What did Reid know about any Jacob and Rachel romance? +How had he learned of that? + +"How're you makin' it, Earl?" Mackenzie returned, pleasantly enough. +And to himself: "He listened, the scoundrel--sneaked up on us and +heard it all!" + +"Oh, well enough," said Reid, coughing huskily. + +If well enough, a little more of it would do for him, Mackenzie +thought, noting with surprise the change that had come over Reid since +they last met. The improvement that had begun in him during his first +weeks on the range had not continued. Opposed to it, a decline +appeared to have fastened upon him, making his flaccid cheeks thinner, +his weary eyes more tired, his slight frame lighter by many pounds. +Only his voice was unchanged. That was hearty and quick, resonant of +enjoyment in life and a keenness in the pursuits of its pleasures. +Reid's voice was his most valuable possession, Mackenzie knew; it was +the vehicle that had carried him into the graces of many transitory +friends. + +"I thought Tim had sent some old taller-heel over to let me off--I +didn't know it was you," said Reid, lying with perfect ease. + +"Taller-heel enough, I guess," Mackenzie returned, detached and +inattentive as it seemed, his mind fixed on dinner. + +"I didn't think you'd be able to get out so soon from what Dad told +me. Been havin' some trouble with your hand?" + +"It's all right now." Mackenzie was making use of it to shake the +coffeepot, only to find that Reid had drained it to the grounds. + +"If I'd recognized you, Jacob, I'd made a double allowance," Reid +said, lifting the corner of his big, unfeeling mouth in a twitching +grin. + +"You might cut out that Jacob stuff, wherever you got it," Mackenzie +told him, not much interested in it, apparently. + +"Can't you take a joke, Mackenzie?" Reid made the inquiry in surprised +voice, with a well-simulated inflection of injury. + +"But I don't want it rubbed in, Reid." + +Reid grunted, expressive of derision and contempt, smoking on in +silence while Mackenzie threw himself together a hasty meal. +Frequently Reid coughed, always cupping his hand before his mouth as +if to conceal from himself as well as others the portentous harshness +of the sound. + +"Did Sullivan send you over?" Reid inquired at last. + +"He said for me to come when I was able, but he didn't set any time. I +concluded I was all right, and came." + +"Well, you can go back; I don't need you." + +"That's for Sullivan to say." + +"On the dead, Mackenzie, I don't see how it's going to be comfortable +with me and you in camp together." + +"The road's open, Earl." + +"I wish it was open out of this damned country!" Reid complained. In +his voice Mackenzie read the rankling discontent of his soul, wearing +itself out there in the freedom that to him was not free, chafing and +longing and fretting his heart away as though the distant hills were +the walls of a prison, the far horizon its bars. + +"Sullivan wants you over at the ranch," Mackenzie told him, moved to +pitying kindness for him, although he knew that it was wasted and +undeserved. + +"I'd rather stay over here, I'd rather hear the coyotes howl than that +pack of Sullivan kids. That's one-hell of a family for a man to have +to marry into, Mackenzie." + +"I've seen men marry into worse," Mackenzie said. + +Reid got up in morose impatience, flinging away his cigarette, went to +the wagon, looked in, slammed the little canvas door with its mica +window shut with a bang, and turned back. + +There seemed little of the carelessness, the easy spirit that had made +him so adaptable at first to his surroundings, which Reid had brought +with him into the sheeplands left in him now. He was sullen and +downcast, consumed by the gnawing desire to be away out of his prison. +Mackenzie studied him furtively as he compounded his coffee and set it +to boil on the little fire, thinking that it required more fortitude, +indeed, to live out a sentence such as Reid faced in the open than +behind a lock. Here, the call to be away was always before a man; the +leagues of freedom stretched out before his eyes. It required some +holding in on a man's part to restrain his feet from taking the +untrammeled way to liberty under such conditions, more than he would +have believed Reid capable of, more than he expected him to be equal +to much longer. + +Reid came slowly over to where he had left his hat, took it up, and +stood looking at it as if he had found some strange plant or unusual +flower, turning it and regarding it from all sides. It was such +strange behavior that Mackenzie kept his eye on him, believing that +the solitude and discontent had strained his mind. + +Presently Reid put the hat on his head, came over to Mackenzie's fire, +and squatted near it on his heels, although the sun was broiling hot +and the flare of the ardent little blaze was scorching to his face. So +he sat, silent as an Indian, looking with fixed eyes at the fire, +while Mackenzie fried his bacon and warmed a can of succotash in the +pan. When Mackenzie began to eat, Reid drew back from the fire to make +another cigarette. + +"But will it pay a man," he said ruminatively, as if turning again a +subject long discussed with himself, "to put in three years at this +just to get out of work all the rest of his life? That's all it comes +to, even if I can keep the old man's money from sifting through my +hands like dry sand on a windy day. The question is, will it pay a man +to take the chance?" + +Reid did not turn his eyes toward Mackenzie as he argued thus with +himself, nor bring his face about to give his companion a full look +into it. He sat staring across the mighty temptation that lay spread, +league on league before him, his sharp countenance sharper for the +wasting it had borne since Mackenzie saw him last, his chin up, his +neck stretched as if he leaped the barriers of his discontent and rode +away. + +"It's a long shot, Mackenzie," he said, turning as he spoke, his face +set in a cast of suffering that brought again to Mackenzie a sweep of +pity which he knew to be a tribute undeserved. "I made a joke about +selling out to you once, Mackenzie; but it isn't a thing a man can +joke about right along." + +"I'm glad it was only a joke, Earl." + +"Sure it was a joke." + +Reid spoke with much of his old lightness, coming out of his brooding +like a man stepping into the sun. He laughed, pulling his hat down on +the bridge of his nose in the peculiar way he had of wearing it. A +little while he sat; then stretched himself back at ease on his elbow, +drooling smoke through his nose in saturnine enjoyment. + +"Sullivan will double-cross you in the end, Jack; he'll not even give +you Mary," Reid said, speaking lazily, neither derision nor banter in +his way. + +"Maybe," Mackenzie returned indifferently. + +"He'd double-cross me after I'd put in three years runnin' his damned +sheep if it wasn't for the old man's money. Tim Sullivan would pick +dimes off a red-hot griddle in hell as long as the devil would stand +by and heat them. He's usin' his girls for bait to draw greenhorns and +work their fool heads off on promises. A man that would do that would +sell his wife." + +Mackenzie made no comment. He was through his dinner and was filling +his pipe, mixing some of Dad Frazer's highly recommended twist with +his own mild leaf to give it a kick. + +"He played you into the game with Joan for a bait, and then I got +shipped out here and spoiled that," said Reid. "Now he's stringin' you +on for Mary. If you're as wise a guy as I take you to be, Jack, +you'll cut this dump and strike out in business for yourself. There's +a feller over east of Carlson wants to sell out--you can get him on +the run." + +"I couldn't buy one side of a sheep," Mackenzie replied, wondering why +this sudden streak of friendly chatter. + +Mackenzie ground Dad's twist in his palm, poured a charge of his pale +mixture into it, ground them again together under the heel of his +fist, Reid looking on with languid eyes, hat down on his nose. + +"What did you do with that roll you used to carry around out here?" +Reid inquired, watching the compounding of the tobacco. + +"It was a mighty little one, Earl," Mackenzie returned, laughing +pleasantly. + +_"It's big enough for me--hand it over!"_ + +Reid flipped his gun from the scabbard, his elbow pressed close to his +side as he reclined in the lazy, inoffensive pose, holding the weapon +down on Mackenzie with a jerk which he must have practiced long to +give it the admirable finish and speed. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVI + +PAYMENT ON ACCOUNT + + +Mackenzie raised his eyes slowly from his task of blending tobacco, +looked for a moment into Reid's determined face, remembering with a +falling heart that he had taken his own revolver off and hung it in +the wagon when he came in, to relieve himself of the weight. + +"Hurry--hand it out!" + +Reid lifted himself slightly, elbow still pressed close to his side, +raising his face a foot nearer Mackenzie's, his eyes drawn small, the +corners of his mouth twitching. + +Mackenzie's hands were poised one above the other, as he had suspended +his milling operations. As quickly as the hand of a prestidigitator +flashes, Mackenzie swept the one that held the tobacco, dashing the +powdered mixture into Reid's eyes. + +Reid fired as he sprang to his feet, gasping and choking, momentarily +blinded by the fiery tobacco. Mackenzie felt the bullet lift his hair +as it passed his temple, and before it was many rods on its way +through the canvas top of the wagon he had grappled with Reid and +wrenched his gun away. + +Reid had no hands for a fight, even if it had been in him to attempt +it, being busy with his streaming eyes. He cursed Mackenzie as he +sputtered and swabbed. + +"Damn it all, Mackenzie, can't you take a joke?" he said. + +"No, I don't get you--you're too funny for me," Mackenzie returned. +"Here--wash your eyes." + +Mackenzie offered the water pail, Reid groping for it like a blind +man, more tears streaming down his face than he had spent before in +all his life together. He got the rough of it out, cursing the while, +protesting it was only a joke. But Mackenzie had read human eyes and +human faces long enough to know a joke when he saw it in them, and he +had not seen even the shadow of a jest in the twitching mask of Reid's +unfeeling countenance as he leaned on his elbow holding his gun. + +"You were right about it a little while ago," Mackenzie told Reid when +he looked up with red, reproachful eyes presently; "this range isn't +big enough for you and me." Mackenzie jerked his hand toward the +saddle and bridle which Reid had lately taken from his horse. "Get to +hell out of here!" + +Reid went without protest, or word of any kind, wearing his belt and +empty scabbard. Mackenzie watched him saddle and ride over the ridge, +wondering if he would make a streak of it to Sullivan and tell him +what a poor hand his school-teaching herder was at taking a joke. +Curious to see whether this was Reid's intention, Mackenzie followed +him to the top of the hill. Reid's dust was all he could trace him by +when he got there, and that rose over toward Swan Carlson's ranch, +whence he had come not more than an hour ago. + +Pretty thick business between that precious pair, Mackenzie thought, +and of a sort not likely to turn out of much profit to either them or +anybody else. Carlson was a plain human brute without any sense of +honor, or any obligation to the amenities of civilized society; Reid +was simply an unmoral sharper. + +It didn't make any difference where Reid went, or what he planned; he +would have to stay away from that camp. That Mackenzie vowed, meaning +it to the last letter. Tim Sullivan would be informed of this latest +pleasantry at their first meeting, also, and hear a chapter from +Mackenzie's heart on the matter of Joan. + +Joan! If that leper Reid ever came near Joan, or ever blew the +pollution of a word to her, he would nail him to the ground with a +bullet, no matter that he was in debt to him for his life. + +Mackenzie found the rifle that Sullivan had provided Reid for his +defense under the bunk in the wagon, with ammunition enough to +withstand a siege. Reid evidently had not been using the gun in +practice very much, confining his rehearsals to the quick slinging of +his pistol, rather, as the cunning of his hand in the attempted +robbery that afternoon seemed to prove. Not wanting Reid to have any +weapon to his hand in case he came back, Mackenzie buckled on the +revolvers, hid the rifle near the wagon, and went back to guard the +sheep. + +Mackenzie felt himself softening in his judgment of Reid as the day +drew toward evening. He feared he had been a little severe with him, +taking his gun away and sending him off, surly and vindictive. Perhaps +it was only a joke, as Reid had protested, although there had been no +glimmer of jest in his eyes when he had slung out his gun. + +Still, the boy was hardly responsible, oppressed by his load of +dissatisfaction, harrassed and disturbed by that unbalancing ailment +they called the lonesomeness. If he had come at it right, Mackenzie +reflected, he could have had a hundred dollars or so, even though in +staking him to it he would have been helping a criminal to escape. + +He began to hope Reid would come back and try to square it. If he +wanted the money to leave the country on then he could have it. +Holding him there in the sheep country would not work his reformation, +but would breed and store the virus of resentment, making him a truly +dangerous man to set free to prey upon society when his term was +done. + +But Reid never would remain to finish his three years of penance +there. Joan had seen it, even before his malady had fastened upon him +so deeply. It might be a merciful deed to finance his going, and speed +him toward the land of his desire. But how he would live in Mexico +would be another matter. Perhaps he would work. At any event, he would +be free. + +Mackenzie had ranged his flock a considerable distance from the wagon, +keeping to the hilltops above the sheep, according to the custom of +herders. He was sitting in a gully, his back against the bank, feeling +a weariness over him that he blamed mainly to the weight of the +revolvers and cartridge belt in his weakened state, when he saw Reid +coming back. + +Reid broke over the hill beyond the sheep-wagon at a gallop, hatless, +riding low, and the sound of shots behind him beat the tune to which +he traveled. Mackenzie got to his feet, his weariness gone on the +surge of concern that thrilled him. Hector Hall had come to collect +his outstanding account at last. + +And Reid was unarmed. Because of this he had been forced to flee before +his enemy like a coward, against his nature, to his humiliation, +Mackenzie knew. He should not have allowed Reid to leave camp without +his gun, he would not have done it if he had reflected a moment on +the risk of going unarmed when there was one abroad on the range who +sought his life. If Reid should fall, Mackenzie felt he would be an +accessory to the crime. + +Two men were pursuing Reid. They drew up a moment on the hilltop, then +came down the long slope at reckless speed, not wasting any more +ammunition at that distance, which was not above two hundred yards, +but dividing to cut off Reid's retreat, draw in on him then, and make +an end of it at close range. + +Reid halted at the wagon, where he made a hasty search for the rifle +without dismounting, hidden for a moment from his pursuers. He was too +far away to hear Mackenzie's shouted directions for finding the gun. +On again toward Mackenzie he came, halting a little way along to look +back at the men who were maneuvering to cut off any swerving or +retreat that he might attempt. Mackenzie beckoned him on, shouting, +waving his hat, running forward to his relief. + +Mackenzie's thought was to give Reid his revolver, split the +ammunition with him, each of them take a man, and fight it out. But +Reid sat straight in the saddle, looking back at the two who came +pressing on, seeming to fear them less than he hated the humiliation +of seeking shelter under Mackenzie's protection. Mackenzie understood +his feeling in the matter, and respected Reid for it more than for +anything he ever had done. + +While Mackenzie was yet a hundred yards from Reid he saw him swing +from the saddle and shelter himself behind his horse. Hall and his +companion were standing off warily, a good pistol shot from Reid, +distrustful of this sudden change in his tactics, apparently believing +he had come to the place he had selected to make his defensive stand. +A little while they stood waiting for him to fire, then separated, the +stranger circling to come behind Mackenzie, Hall moving a little +nearer to Reid, who kept his horse before him with the craft of an +Indian. + +Hall stood a little while, as if waiting for Reid to fire, then rode +forward, throwing a stream of lead as he came. Reid's horse reared, +ran a few rods with head thrown wildly high, its master clinging to +the bit, dragging over shrub and stone. Suddenly it collapsed forward +on its knees, and stretched dead. + +Reid flung himself to the ground behind the protection of its carcass, +Hall pausing in his assault to reload. The man who had ridden a wide +and cautious circuit to get behind Mackenzie now dismounted and began +firing across his saddle. Mackenzie turned, a pistol in each hand, +indecisive a moment whether to return the fellow's fire or rush +forward and join Reid behind the breastworks of his beast. + +The stranger was nearer Mackenzie by many rods than Hall, but still so +far away that his shots went wide, whistling high over Mackenzie's +head, or kicking dirt among the shrubs at either hand. Hall was +charging down on Reid again, but with a wariness that held him off a +distance of comparative safety. + +In the moment that he paused there, considering the best and quickest +move to make to lessen Reid's peril, the thought shot to Mackenzie +like a rending of confusing clouds that it was not so much Reid's +peril as his own. These men had come to kill him; their sighting Reid +on the way was only an incident. It was his fight, and not Reid's, for +Reid was safe behind his horse, lying along its body close to the +ground like a snake. + +This understanding of the situation cleared the air tremendously. +Where he had seen in confusion, with a sense of mingling and turning +but a moment before, Mackenzie now beheld things with the sharpness of +self-interest, calculating his situation with a comprehensive +appraisement of every yard that lay between him and his enemies. He +was steady as a tree, light with a feeling of relief, of justification +for his acts. It was as if putting off the thought that he was going +into this fight for Earl Reid had taken bonds from his arms, leaving +him free to breathe joyously and strike with the keenness of a man who +has a wild glory in facing tremendous odds. + +All in a moment this clearing of brain and limb came to him, setting +him up as if he had passed under an icy torrent and come out refreshed +and clear-eyed into the sun. He bent low behind a shrub and rushed +down the hillside toward the man who stood reloading his pistol, his +hat-crown showing above the saddle. + +Reid was all right back there for a little while, he knew; Hall would +hold off a bit, not knowing what he might meet by rushing in with +precipitation. This one first, then Hall. It was not Reid's fight; it +was his fight, Reid but an incident in it, as a sheep might run +between the combatants and throw its simple life in peril. + +The fellow behind the horse, too sure of his safety, too contemptuous +of this shepherd schoolmaster whose notorious simplicity had gone +abroad in the sheeplands exciting the rough risibilities of men, was +careless of whether his target stood still or ran; he did not lift his +eyes from the reloading of his gun to see. And in those few precious +moments Mackenzie rushed down on him like a wind from the mountain, +opening fire with not more than twenty yards between. + +Mackenzie's first shot knocked leather from the saddle-horn. The horse +squatted, trembling, snorted its alarm, trampled in panic, lifting a +cloud of dust. And into this rising dust Mackenzie sent his lead, not +seeing where it struck, quickly emptying one revolver, quickly +shifting weapons from hand to hand, no pause in his hot assault. + + The stranger cursed his frightened horse, both hands busy with the +beast to stay it from plunging away and leaving him exposed to +something he had not counted on meeting. Mackenzie pushed on, firing +at every step. The horse partly turned, head toward him, partly baring +the scoundrel who was that moment flinging his leg over the saddle to +seek a coward's safety. It was a black mare that he rode, a white star +in its forehead, and now as it faced about Mackenzie, not thirty feet +away, threw a bullet for the white spot between the creature's eyes. +It reared, and fell, coming down while its rider's leg still lay +across the saddle, his other foot held in the stirrup. + +A moment Mackenzie stood, the smoking pistol in his hand, leaning +forward like a man who listened into the wind, his broad hat-brim +blown back, the smoke of his firing around him. The horse lay still, +its rider struggling with one leg pinned under it, the other across +the saddle, the spur of that foot tearing the dead creature's flesh in +desperate effort to stir in it the life that no cruelty could awaken. + +Leaning so, the wind in his face, the smoke blowing away behind him, +Mackenzie loaded his revolvers. Then he ran to the trapped invader of +his peace and took away his guns, leaving him imploring mercy and +assistance, the dead horse across his leg. + +Mackenzie was aware of shooting behind him all this time, but only as +one is conscious of something detached and immaterial to the thing he +has in hand. Whether Hector Hall was riding down on him in defense of +his friend, or whether he was trying to drive Reid from the shelter of +his fallen horse, Mackenzie did not know, but from that moment Hall +was his business, no matter where he stood. + +Putting out of the fight the man who lay pressed beneath his horse had +been a necessary preliminary, a colorless detail, a smoothing away of +a small annoyance in the road of that hour's great work. For the end +was justified beforehand between him and Hall. It was not a matter of +vengeance, but of justice. This man had once attempted to take away +his life by the most diabolical cruelty that human depravity could +devise. + +This passed through Mackenzie's thoughts like the heat of a fire that +one runs by as he swung round to face Hall. Apparently unconcerned by +what had befallen his friend, Hall was circling Reid's dead horse, +holding tenaciously to his intention of clearing the ground before him +as he advanced. Reid snaked himself on his elbows ahead of his enemy's +encircling movement, keeping under cover with admirable coolness and +craft. + +Mackenzie ran forward, throwing up his hand in command to Hall, +challenging him as plainly as words to turn his efforts from a +defenseless man to one who stood ready to give him battle. Hall drew +off a little from Reid's concealment, distrustful of him even though +he must have known him to be unarmed, not caring to put a man behind +his back. Still drawing off in that way, he stopped firing to slip +more cartridges into his automatic pistol, watching Mackenzie's rapid +advance, throwing a quick eye now and then toward the place where Reid +lay out of his sight. + +Hall waited in that sharp pose of watchful indecision a moment, then +spurred his horse with sudden bound toward Reid. He leaped the carcass +of Reid's animal at a gallop, firing at the man who huddled close +against its protection as he passed over. Mackenzie could not see Reid +from where he stood, but he felt that his peril was very great, his +chances almost hopeless in the face of Hall's determination to have +revenge on his brother's slayer in defiance of what might come to +himself when the thing was done. + +Mackenzie ran a little nearer, and opened fire. Heedless of him, Hall +swung his horse back at a gallop, firing at Reid as he advanced. Reid +came rolling round the carcass of his horse to place himself in the +protection of the other side, so nimble in his movements that +Mackenzie drew a breath of marveling relief. If Reid was touched at +all by Hall's vicious rain of lead, it could be only slightly. + +Hall's headlong charge carried him several rods beyond Reid, the horse +springing high over the barrier. Again Reid escaped, again he came +rolling back to shelter, his body as close to the ground as a worm's. +When Hall pulled up his sliding, stiff-legged horse and turned in the +cloud of dust to ride once more upon his defenseless enemy, it was to +face Mackenzie, who had run up and posted himself directly in his +way. + +Reid's dead horse lay not more than twenty feet behind Mackenzie. +Hector Hall leaned glowering at him through the dust perhaps twice +that distance ahead. A moment Hall leaned in that way, then came +spurring on, holding his fire as if his purpose were to ride Mackenzie +down in contempt. + +Mackenzie fired, steady against the onrushing charge as a rock in the +desert wind. He was thrilled by a calm satisfaction in meeting this +man who had contemned and despised him, whose cold eyes spoke insults, +whose sneering lips were polluted with the blasphemies of his filthy +heart. + +When Hall returned the fire he was so close that the flame of his +weapon struck hot against Mackenzie's face. Mackenzie leaped aside to +avoid the horse, untouched save by the spurting flame, emptying his +pistol into Hall's body as he passed. A little way on Hall wheeled the +horse and came riding back, but the blindness of death was in his +face, his rapid shots fell wild among the shrubs at Mackenzie's side. + +On past Mackenzie the horse galloped, Hall weaving in the saddle, the +reins hanging free, his hands trailing at his sides. Mackenzie put his +pistol in the scabbard with slow and deliberate hand, feeling that the +battle was done, watching Hall as he rode blindly on. + +A little way, and the horse, whether through some wild caprice of its +own, or some touch of its dying rider, circled back, galloping down +the long slope toward the man who had come to help Hall adjust his +differences with these contemptible sheepmen. Hall's hat fell off as +his head sank forward; he bent, grappling his horse's mane. So for a +little way he rode, then slipped from the saddle, one foot entangled +in the stirrup. + +The horse stopped suddenly, as if a weighted rein had been dropped. +Mackenzie ran down the hill to disengage Hall's foot. But his merciful +haste was useless; Hall was beyond the torture of dragging at a +stirrup. + +Mackenzie released the foot with a sad gentleness, composed the dusty +body, drew the reins over the horse's head and left it standing beside +its dead master. Hall's companion in the raid was still struggling +under his fallen horse, and from the vigor of his attempts to free +himself Mackenzie gathered that he was not much hurt. + +A moment's work set the scoundrel on his feet, where he limped on a +whole bone, whole enough to ride on many a rascally foray again. +Mackenzie said nothing to him, only indicated by a movement of the +hand what he was to do. Limping painfully, the fellow went to Hall's +horse, lifted his friend's body across the empty saddle, mounted +behind it with a struggle, and rode in humiliation from the field, +glad enough to be allowed to go. + +Reid was standing beside his dead horse, watching the fellow ride +away. So for a little he stood, as if he debated some movement against +the man who had sought his life with such hot cruelty but a few +minutes past, not turning to see whether Mackenzie came or went. +Presently he took his coat from the saddle, slung it over his +shoulder, looked after the retreating man again, as if debating +whether to follow. + +Mackenzie came up, Reid's pistol in his hand. This he offered, apology +in his manner, but no words on his lips. Reid took it, silent and +unmoved, shoved it into his scabbard, walked away. + +From the manner of his going, Mackenzie knew he was not hurt. It was a +comfortable thought for Mackenzie that his interference had at least +saved Reid a wound. Doubtless he had saved him more. In that last +charge, Hector Hall would have had his life. + +A part of his tremendous obligation to Reid was paid, and Reid +understood it so. But the knowledge of it seemed to gall him, so +deeply, indeed, that it appeared he rather would have died than have +Mackenzie succeed in his defense. + +Reid stopped where Hector Hall's hat had fallen. He turned it with his +foot, looking down at it, and presently picked it up. He made as if +he would put it on, but did not, and passed on carrying it in his +hand. + +Mackenzie wondered what his plans might be, and whether he ought to go +after him and try to put their differences out of the way. Reid did +not stop at the wagon. He continued on to the top of the hill, defiant +of the man who rode away with Hall's body, his pistol again on his +thigh. There he stood looking this way and that a little while, as a +man looks who is undecided of his road. Then he passed on. When +Mackenzie reached the spot where Reid had stood, he was no longer in +sight. + +Mackenzie thought Reid might be going deliberately to seek the battle +from which he had been obliged so lately to flee unarmed. Mackenzie +waited on the eminence, listening for the sounds of fight, ready to +hasten to Reid's assistance if he should stand in need of it again. So +the last hour of the afternoon passed. Mackenzie turned back to his +flock at length, believing Reid had gone on his way to the freedom he +had weighed against his inheritance only a few hours before. + +It was just as well then as another day, Mackenzie reflected, as he +turned the sheep from their grazing. Not that he had meant to drive +Reid out of the country when he told him to go, but it was just as +well. Soon or late it would have to come to a show-down between them, +and one would have been compelled to leave. + +But how would Sullivan view this abrupt ending of the half-million-dollar +penance, and the loss of three years' unpaid labor? Not kindly, +certainly. It probably would result in the collapse of all Mackenzie's +own calculations as well, and the blighting of his sheep-wealth dreams. + +And that day he had slain a man in defense of Earl Reid's life, as +Reid had killed in defense of his. + +From the first hour he set his feet on the trail to the sheep country +this culmination of his adventures had been shaping. Little by little +it had been building, the aggression pressed upon him, his attitude +all along one of defense. Perhaps when trouble is heading for a man, +as this was inevitably directed, the best thing to do is rush to meet +it with a club in the hand. + +That was the way it looked to John Mackenzie that evening. Trouble +will put things over on a man who is bent to compromise, every time. +Undoubtedly it looked that way. But he had killed a man. It was a +heavy thing to carry on his soul. + +This depressing shadow thickened over him as the sun drew down to +the hills, and he went working his flock slowly to the night's +bedding-ground. The complaint of the lambs, weary from following and +frisking the day through, was sadder to him than it ever had fallen +on his ears before. It seemed a lament for the pollution of his hands +in human blood, moving a regret in his heart that was harder to bear +than fear. + +Mackenzie sat above the resting sheep as the shadows drew toward him +between the hills, a glow as of a distant city where the sun went down +an hour past. The rifle was beside him, his pistol in his belt, for +regret of past violence would not make the next hour secure. If +trouble should lift its head in his path again, he vowed he would kill +it before it could dart and strike. + +No, it was not a joke that Reid had pulled on him that afternoon. Reid +had meant to rob him, urged on to the deed by his preying discontent +and racking desire to be away. Reid was on his way out of the country +now, and if they caught him and took him before the judge who had +sentenced him to this unique penance, he would have the plea that +Mackenzie drove him out, and that he fled to save his life. + +That might be sufficient for the judge; certainly it would be enough +for Tim Sullivan. Sullivan would bring him back, and Mackenzie would +be sent to pick up the trail of his fortunes in another place, with +years of waiting between him and Joan, perhaps. + +So Mackenzie sat with his moody thoughts, depressed, downhearted, +regretting bitterly the necessity that had risen for taking away a +fellow-creature's life. It bore on him heavily now that the heat of +his blood had subsided; it stood before him an awful accusation. He +had killed a man! But a man who had forfeited his right to live, a man +who had attempted to take his life in the past, who had come again +that day to hunt him like a coyote on the hills. The law would +exculpate him; men would speak loudly of his justification. But it +would stand against him in his own conscience all his days. Simple for +thinking of it that way, he knew; simple as they held him to be in the +sheep country, even down to old Dad Frazer, simplest among men. + +He had no desire in his mouth for supper, although he set about +preparing it, wanting it over before dark. No need of a blaze or a +glow of a coal to guide anybody that might be prowling around to drop +a bullet into him. That surly rascal who bore Hector Hall's body away +might come back to do it, but the man who stood first in his thoughts +and caution was Earl Reid, out there somewhere in the closing night +with a gun on him and an itch in his hand to use it. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVII + +A SUMMONS IN THE NIGHT + + +Somebody was calling on the hill behind the sheep-wagon. Mackenzie sat +up, a chill in his bones, for he had fallen asleep on watch beside the +ashes of his supper fire. He listened, the rack of sleep clearing from +his brain in a breath. + +It was Dad Frazer, and the hour was past the turn of night. Mackenzie +answered, the sound of a horse under way immediately following. Dad +came riding down the hill with loose shale running ahead of him, in +such a hurry that he took the sharp incline straight. + +"What's the matter?" Mackenzie inquired, hurrying out to meet him. + +"I don't know," said Dad, panting from excitement as if he had run the +distance between the camps on foot. "Mary come over on her horse a +little while ago and rousted me out. She said somebody just passed her +camp, and one of 'em was Joan." + +"Joan? What would she--what does Mary----?" + +"That's what I said," Dad told him, sliding to the ground. "I said +Joan wouldn't be trapsin' around this time of night with nobody, but +if she did happen to be she could take care of herself. But Mary said +she sounded like she was fussin' and she thought something must be +wrong, and for me to hop her horse and come hell-for-leather and tell +you." + +"How many--which way were they going?" + +"Two horses, Mary said, from the sound, but she didn't hear nobody's +voice but Joan's. She got Charley up, and they run out and hollered, +but she didn't hear nothing more of Joan. The poor kid's scared out of +her 'leven senses." + +"Which way did they go--did Mary say?" + +"Towards Swan Carlson's ranch, she said." + +Mackenzie swung into the saddle and galloped off, leaving Dad +listening to the sound of his going. + +"Nutty, like the rest of 'em," said Dad. + +Carlson's house was not more than eight miles from the range where +Mackenzie was running his sheep. He held his course in that direction +as he rode break-neck up hill and down. He had little belief that it +could have been Joan who passed Mary's camp, yet he was disturbed by +an anxiety that made his throat dry, and a fear that clung to him like +garments wet in the rain. + +Reid could not have anything to do with it in any event, Joan or +somebody else, for Reid was horseless upon the range. But if Joan, he +was at entire loss to imagine upon what business she could be riding +the country that hour of the night. Joan had no fear of either night +or the range. She had cared for her sheep through storm and dark, +penetrating all the terrors that night could present, and she knew the +range too well to be led astray. It must have been a voice that Mary +had heard in a dream. + +Mackenzie felt easier for these reflections, but did not check his +pace, holding on toward Carlson's house in as straight a line as he +could draw. He recalled curiously, with a prickling of renewed +anxiety, that he always expected to be called to Carlson's house for +the last act in the sheeplands tragedy. Why, he did not know. +Perhaps he had not expected it; maybe it was only a psychological +lightning-play of the moment, reflecting an unformed emotion. That +likely was the way of it, he reasoned. Surely he never could have +thought of being called to Carlson's ranch. + +In that fever of contradiction he pushed on, knees gripping his horse +in the tensity of his desire to hasten, thinking to hold the animal up +from stumbling as an anxious rider in the night will do. Now he +believed it could not have been Joan, and felt a momentary ease; now +he was convinced that Mary could not have mistaken her sister's voice, +and the sweat of fear for her burst on his forehead and streamed down +into his eyes. + +From the side that he approached Carlson's house his way lay through a +valley at the end, bringing him up a slight rise as he drew near the +trees that stood thickly about the place. Here he dismounted and went +on, leading his horse. A little way from the house he hitched his +animal among the trees, and went forward in caution, wary of a dog +that might be keeping watch beside the door. + +There was no moon. The soft glow of a few misty, somnolent stars gave +no light among the trees, no light shone from the house. Mackenzie +recalled the night he had first approached that door and come suddenly +around the corner into the pale beam of Hertha Carlson's lantern. Now +the kitchen door might be shut, and there was no window on that side. + +Mackenzie stopped to listen, his senses as keen as a savage's under +his strain. One who has not approached danger and uncertainty, +listening and straining in the night, cannot conceive the exquisite +pitch to which human nerves can be attuned. The body then becomes a +tower set with the filaments of wireless telegraphy, each of the +thousand nerves straining forth to catch the faintest sound, the most +shadowy disturbance. Even premonitions become verities; indistinct +propositions tangible facts. + +In that exalted pitch of nervous sensibility Mackenzie stood +listening, fifty feet or less from the kitchen door. No sound, but a +sharp scent of cigarette smoke came blowing from the dark house. +Mackenzie's heart seemed to gorge and stop. Earl Reid was there. +Perhaps Mary had not heard a voice in a dream. + +At the closed door Mackenzie listened. For a little, no sound; then a +foot shifted on the floor. Almost immediately someone began walking up +and down the room, pushing a chair aside as if to clear the way. +Mackenzie remembered the window high in the wall beside the stove and +went hastily around the house to it, restraining himself from bursting +precipitately into something which might be no concern of his or +warrant his interference at all. It seemed so preposterous even to +suspect that Joan was there. + +Reid was pacing up and down the room, a lantern standing on the floor +beside the chair from which he had risen. The place had been +readjusted since the ruin that fell over it in Mackenzie's fight with +Swan; the table stood again in the place where he had eaten his supper +on it, the broken leg but crudely mended. + +Reid seemed to be alone, from what of the interior of the house +Mackenzie could see, shifting to bring the door of the inner room to +view. It was closed; Joan was not there. + +Mackenzie watched Reid as he paced up and down the kitchen floor. +There was a nervousness over him, as of a man who faced a great +uncertainty. He walked with bent head, now turning it sharply as he +stood listening, now going on again with hands twitching. He threw +down his cigarette and stamped it, went to the kitchen door, opened it +and stood listening. + +A little while Reid stood at the door, head turned, as if he harkened +for the approach of somebody expected. When he turned from the door he +left it open, rolled a cigarette, crossed to the door of the inner +room, where he stood as if he debated the question of entering. A +little while in that uncertain, hesitant way; then he struck a match +on the door and turned again to his pacing and smoking. + +Mackenzie almost decided to go to the open door and speak to Reid, and +learn whether he might be of assistance to him in his evident stress. +He was ready to forgive much of what had passed between them, blaming +it to Reid's chafing against the restraint that was whetting him down +to a bone. + +Mackenzie felt now that he had not handled Reid in the right way. Reid +was not of the slow, calculative, lead-balanced type of himself. He +was a wolf of civilization, to whom these wilds were more galling than +the bars of a prison. The judge who had agreed to this sentence had +read deeply in the opaque soul of the youth. + +Prison would not have been much of a penance for Reid. There he would +have found intrigue, whispering, plottings; a hundred shadowy +diversions to keep his perverted mind clear and sharp. Here he met +only the silence of nature, the sternest accuser of a guilty soul. +Reid could not bear the accusation of silence. Under it his mind grew +irritable with the inflammation of incipient insanity. In a little +while it would break. Even now he was breaking; that was plain in his +disordered eyes. + +Still Mackenzie hesitated to speak to him, watching him as he went +with increasing frequency to the open door to listen. It was not his +affair; Joan could not be there. Even if she were there, she must have +come for a purpose good and justifiable, and of her own free will. But +she was not there, and Reid was waiting for somebody to come. Swan +Carlson or his wife, it must be, and what business they had before +them in this unrighteous hour Mackenzie could not imagine. But plainly +it had nothing to do with Joan. + +Mackenzie's thoughts reverted to the night he came to that cabin among +the trees, guided thither by the plaintive melody of Hertha Carlson's +song. What a fool he had been to linger on there that night waiting to +see Swan, in the mistaken kindness to the woman the wild fellow had +made his slave. If he had gone on that night, leaving the still waters +of trouble unstirred, he would have walked in peace through his +apprenticeship. Surely his crowding of trouble at Swan Carlson's door +that night was the beginning of it all. + +There was that door closed now on the inner room; on that night it +stood open, the long chain that bound the Swede's wife running through +it from the staple driven into the log. Mackenzie had not noticed the +thickness of the door's planks that night, or the crudity of its +construction. The handiwork of Swan Carlson was proclaimed from that +door; it was rough and strong, like himself, without finish, loosely +joined. Its planks were oak; great nails in them marked the Z of its +brace. + +Then Mackenzie turned his eyes upon Reid again. Reid went back to the +inner door, pushed it, tried it with his foot. It seemed to be +fastened within. Perhaps there was a reason for its strength; maybe +Swan kept his crude treasures locked there in that small stronghold of +logs while he roamed the range after his sheep. Reid did not appear +greatly interested in the door, or what lay behind it. He turned from +it almost at once, drew his chair in front of it, sat down, his right +hand toward Mackenzie, the lantern light strong on the lower part of +his body, his face in shadow from the lantern's top. Mackenzie +quickened with a new interest, a new speculation, when he saw that +Reid's holster hung empty at his belt. + +At once Mackenzie decided to speak to Reid, certain that he had been +through some misadventure in which he had suffered loss. He drew away +from the window, going around the front part of the house to come to +the kitchen door, thinking it might be wise to know the way the land +lay around those premises. + +This part of the house was little larger than the shack of boards that +had been built to it. There was no opening in its solid log walls, +neither of window or door save alone the door opening into the +kitchen. The place was a vault. + +Somebody was approaching, riding rapidly up the valley. There was more +than one horse, Mackenzie could well make out as he stood at the +corner of the house, listening. He saw Reid's shadow fall in the light +that spread through the open door, and turned back to keep his watch +at the window. + +It was not the moment to offer friendship or sympathy to Reid. +Something of Reid's own brewing was coming to a boil there, some +business of his own was drawing to a head in that lonely cabin among +the whispering trees. + +Reid took up the lantern, stood a moment as if indecisive, placed it +on the stove. Not satisfied with the way the light of it struck him +there, apparently, he removed it and stood it in a corner. Whoever was +coming, Reid did not want it known at a glance that his scabbard was +empty. Mackenzie pressed a little nearer the window. When a man +prepared for a meeting with that caution, he would do to watch. + +Reid went to the open door, where he stood like a host to receive his +guests. The riders were among the trees; coming on more slowly. Now +they stopped, and Reid turned to light a fresh cigarette. The flash of +the match showed his face white, hat pulled down on his brows, his +thin, long gamester's fingers cupped round the blaze. + +There fell a moment of silence, no sound of word, no movement of horse +or foot upon the ground. Insects among the trees were grinding their +scythes for tomorrow's reaping, it seemed, whirring in loud, harsh +chorus such as one never heard out on the grazing lands. + +Now the sound of footsteps approaching the door. Reid came back into +the room, where he stood drawing a deep breath of smoke like a man +drinking to store against a coming thirst. He dropped the cigarette, +set his foot on it, crushed it to sparks on the floor. + +Swan Carlson was in the door, the light dim on his stern, handsome +face. Behind him stood his woman, a white wimple bound on her forehead +like a nun. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVIII + +SWAN CARLSON LAUGHS + + +"So, you are here?" said Swan, standing in the door, looking about him +as if he had entered an unfamiliar place. + +"Didn't you look for me?" Reid returned. He stood between Carlson and +the closed inner door, foot on a rung of the chair in which he lately +had sat, his attitude careless, easy. + +"A man never knows," Carlson replied, coming into the room. + +Hertha Carlson lingered just outside the door, as if repelled by the +recollection of old sufferings there. Swan reached out, grasped her +wrist, drew her roughly inside, pointed to a chair. The woman sat +down, her eyes distended in fright, her feet drawn close to the chair +as if to hide them from the galling chain that she had dragged so many +weary months across the floor of her lonely prison. + +Swan pulled a chair to the table and sat down, elbows on the board, +facing Reid, a question in his attitude, his face, to which he at once +gave words: + +"Where's your woman?" + +"Where's the money?" Reid countered, putting out his hand. "You threw +me down after I delivered you three hundred sheep--you didn't come +across with a cent--on the plea that one thief couldn't collect from +another. All right, Swan; we'll forget the sheep deal, but this is +another matter. Put your money in my hand; then we'll talk." + +"Is she in there?" Swan pointed to the door behind Reid, half rising +from his chair. + +Reid put his hand to his empty holster, his body turned from Carlson +to conceal his want of a weapon. Carlson jerked his head in high +disdain, resumed his chair, his great hand spread on the table. + +Mackenzie stepped back from the window, leveling his pistol at Reid's +head. Joan was the subject of this infamous barter. + +A moment Mackenzie's finger stiffened to send a bullet into Reid's +brain, for he considered only that such depravity was its own warrant +of death. But Reid was unarmed, and there was something in his +attitude that seemed to disclose that it was a bluff. Joan was not +there. + +Joan was not there. She would not remain silent and unresisting, shut +in a room while a cold-blooded scoundrel bargained to deliver her for +a price like a ewe out of his flock. Reid was playing to even the +deceit Carlson had put over on him in dealing for the stolen sheep. It +was a bluff. Joan was not there. + +Mackenzie let down the weapon. It was not the moment for interference; +he would allow the evidence to accumulate before passing sentence and +executing it with summary hand. + +"Come across with the money before we go any further," said Reid, firm +in his manner, defiantly confident in his bearing. "I've got to get +out of this country before morning." + +"I wouldn't give five hundred dollars for her," Swan declared. "How do +I know she'd stay with me? She might run off tomorrow if I didn't have +a chain on her." + +Reid said nothing. He backed a little nearer the door as if he had it +in mind to call the negotiations off. Swan looked at him with chin +thrust forward, neck extended. + +"She ain't here--you're a liar!" he charged. + +"All right; there's a pair of us, then." + +"I've brought my woman--" Swan stretched out his hand to call +attention to her where she cowered in her chair--"fixed up to meet you +like a bride. Woman for woman, I say; that's enough for any man." + +"I don't want your woman, Carlson." + +"You tried to steal her from me; you was lovin' her over on the +range." + +"What do you care? You don't want her." + +"Sure I don't," Swan agreed heartily; "if I did I'd 'a' choked your +neck over there that night. Woman for woman, or no trade." + +"That's not our bargain, Carlson." + +Reid spoke sharply, but with a dry quaver in his voice that betrayed +the panic that was coming over him on account of this threatened +miscarriage of his plans. Mackenzie was convinced by Reid's manner +that Swan had read him right. Joan was not there. + +The thought that Joan would accompany Reid in the night to Swan +Carlson's house on any pretext he could devise in his crafty mind was +absurd. It was all a bluff, Reid playing on Swan's credulity to induce +him to hand over the money, when he would make a dash for the door and +ride away. + +Mackenzie stood close to the window, pistol lifted, thinking it all +out between Reid's last word and Carlson's next, for the mind can +build a castle while the heart is pausing between throbs. + +"My woman for yours, that's a fair trade," said Swan. "I don't want to +put no money in a wild colt that maybe I couldn't break. Open the door +and bring her to me, and take my woman and go." + +"Nothing doin'," said Reid, regaining his nonchalance, or at any rate +control of his shaking voice. + +"You're a liar, you ain't got no woman here." + +"She's in there, all right--come across with the money and take her." + +"How do I know you've got any right to make a trade? Have you got the +papers to show she's yours?" + +"I've got all the papers you'll ever need." + +"You ain't got no papers--she's as much mine as she is yours. Open the +door!" + +Carlson got up, towering above Reid in his great height. He took off +his hat and flung it on the table, stood a little while bending +forward in his peculiar loose droop with arms swinging full length at +his sides. Reid backed away from him, standing with shoulders against +the door as if to deny him passage, hand thrown to his empty holster. + +"You ain't got no gun!" Swan said, triumphantly. "I seen the minute I +come in the door you didn't have no gun. I wouldn't fight a feller +like you--you couldn't stand up to me like that other feller done here +in this house one night." + +Swan looked round the room, the memory of that battle like a light +upon his stony face. He stood in silence, turning his head slowly, as +if he found a pleasure in the stages of the past battle as recalled to +him by the different locations in the place. + +"You wanted me to kill that feller so he couldn't take your woman away +from you, didn't you?" Swan said, contemptuously. "Over there that day +me and you made that joke on him runnin' my sheep over into his. But +he didn't take that joke--what? He stood up to me and fought me like +an old bear, and he'd 'a' whipped me another time if it hadn't been +for them dogs helpin' me. You bet your hat he would! Yes, and then you +come up, and you said to me: 'Soak him another one!' And I looked at +you, with red in my eyes. 'Soak him, put him out for good this time!' +you says. And I looked at you another time, my eye as red as blood. + +"'No,' I says, 'damn your skin, I'll not soak him when he's down, and +you'll not do it, and no man ain't a goin' to do it! He's the only man +on this range that can stand up to me,' I told you, 'and I'm goin' to +save him to fight!' That's what I said to you. Well, he'll come after +me when I take his woman away from him--he'll come after me so hard +he'll make the ground shake like a train--and he'll fight me for her, +a fight that men will remember! We'll roar like the wind, him and me, +when we stand up and fight for his woman that I took away from him +this night." + +Reid drew away from him, seeming to contract upon himself against the +door, and whether Swan read it Mackenzie could not tell, but he could +see from the window the sickness of fear spread over Reid's pale +face. + +"You ain't got no gun on you," Swan mocked, taking joy from that +moment. "Hell! my old woman can lick you, and I'm goin' to make her do +it. Then I'll take that feller's woman away from you and kick you to +hell out of here!" + +Swan turned to Hertha, who had left her chair on his first threatening +move toward Reid. She had advanced a little way into the room, a wild +fury in her face against the man who had bargained to bring another +woman between her and her fierce, harsh-handed lord. Swan took her by +the arm, his hand at her back as if to give her courage. + +"Go on--lick him--choke him the way I showed you how to choke a man!" + +Swan clapped his hands, stamping his foot sharply, as he had clapped +and stamped to urge on the dog against Mackenzie that day they fought +on the range. And like a dog that has strained on a leash the woman +leaped, flinging herself upon Reid with a wild, high-shrilling cry. + +Reid tried to guard his face against her fury, attempted to grapple +her arms and hold her. She broke away, clawing his face, screaming her +maniacal cry. In a moment they were a whirling tangle of arms, +wild-flying hair, swaying bodies bent in fierce attack and desperate +defense. The furious creature had Reid by the throat in the grip Swan +had taught her, strangling out his life. + +Reid clung to her wrists, struggling to tear her hands from his +throat, thrashing wildly about before the closed door, his head +striking it now as the woman flung him, now his shoulders as she bent +him to force him to the floor. + +Swan stood by, leaning forward in a pose of deep interest, deep +satisfaction, savage enjoyment, his loose-hanging arms at his sides, +his long mustaches down beside his mouth. He said nothing to encourage +his woman in her mad combat, only seemed waiting the issue, ready to +lay his hand to finishing it in the event that she should fail. + +The fighting woman, still screaming above the din of their trampling +feet, struggled to lift her knee to Reid's chest. Mackenzie turned +from the window to interfere, not caring to see Reid go that way, no +matter what sins lay upon his young soul. As he came running to the +door, he saw Reid struggle to his feet, tear the mad woman's hands +away, and strike her a sharp blow in the face. + +There must have been surprising power in that slender arm, or else its +strength was multiplied by the frenzy of the strangling man, for the +woman dropped as if she had been struck with an ax. Swan Carlson, +standing there like a great oaf, opened his immense mouth and +laughed. + +Reid staggered against the wall, hands at his throat, blood streaming +from his nostrils, bubbling from his lips as he breathed with +wide-gasping mouth. He stood so a little while, then collapsed with +sudden failing, no strength in him to ease the fall. + +Carlson turned to face Mackenzie, his icy mirth spent. + +"It's you?" he said. "Well, by God, it's a man, anyhow!" + +Carlson offered his hand as if in friendship. Mackenzie backed away, +watchful of him, hand to his pistol. + +"Who's in that room, Carlson?" he asked. + +"Maybe nobody," Swan replied. "We'll fight to see who opens the +door--what?" + +There was an eager gleam in Carlson's face as he made this proposal, +standing between Mackenzie and the closed door, his arm stretched out +as if to bar the schoolmaster's nearer approach. He bent toward +Mackenzie, no hostility in his manner or expression, but rather more +like a man who had made a friendly suggestion, the answer to which he +waited in pleasurable anticipation. + +Mackenzie looked at him coldly, measuring his great strength, weighing +his magnificent body down to the last unit of its power. Carlson's +shirt was open at his throat, his laced boots came to his knees over +his baggy corduroy trousers, his long red hair hung over his temples +and ears. + +"No, there's been fighting enough," Mackenzie said, thinking that Joan +must be bound and gagged if in that room. Surely she would have spoken +otherwise at the sound of his voice. + +Hertha Carlson rose to her hands and knees, where she remained a spell +like a creeping child, almost at Mackenzie's feet. Reid lay where he +had sunk down, pitched forward in front of the closed door. + +"I'll open it, then," said Swan in the same glowing eagerness. "It'll +be a game--whatever I find I'll keep!" + +"Don't touch it!" Mackenzie warned, drawing a little nearer, his +weapon half out of the scabbard. + +Mrs. Carlson rose between them, tall, disheveled, dress torn open at +her bosom. She seemed dazed and oblivious to what was passing, stood a +moment, hands pressed to her face as one racked by an agony of pain, +went to the door, and out. Carlson stood staring after her a breath, +his bold chin lifted high, a look of surprise passing like a light +over his eyes. + +"What I find will be mine," Carlson said, almost happily. "Come +on--we'll fight like a couple of men!" + +Carlson thrust his hand into the bosom of his shirt as he spoke, and +drew out a revolver with a long sweep of his mighty arm, throwing his +body with the movement as if he rocked with a wild, mad joy. Mackenzie +fired as Carlson lifted the weapon to throw it down for a shot. +Carlson's pistol fell from his shattered hand. + +Swan stood a moment, that flickering light of surprise flashing in his +eyes again. Then he threw back his head and shouted in the mad joy of +his wild heart, his great mouth stretched wide, his great mustaches +moving in his breath. Shouting still, as his Viking forebears shouted +in the joy of battle, the roar of his great voice going far into the +night, Swan rushed upon Mackenzie like a wounded bear. + +Mackenzie gave back before him, leaping aside, firing. Checked a +moment, more by the flash of the discharge in his eyes than by the +bullet, it seemed, Swan roared a wilder note and pressed the charge. +His immense, lunging body was dim before Mackenzie through the smoke, +his uninjured hand groping like a man feeling for a door in a burning +house. + +Swan fell with the mad challenge on his tongue, and cried his +defiance still as he writhed a moment on his back, turning his face to +the open door and the peace of the night at last, to die. To die in +greater heroism than he had lived, and to lie there in his might and +wasted magnificence of body, one hand over the threshold dabbling in +the dark. + +Mackenzie took the lantern from the corner where Reid had set it in +his studious play for the advantage that did not come to his hand, and +turned back to the closed door. Reid lay as he had fallen, Carlson's +revolver by his side. Mackenzie stepped over him and tried the door. +It was unlocked, fastened only by the iron thumb-latch. + +A moment Mackenzie stood, lifting the lantern to light the small room +to its corners, then went in, peering and exploring into every +shadow. + +"Great God! She wasn't here at all! And I've killed a man for that!" +he said. + +He turned to the open door, stifled by remorse for what he had done, +although he had done it in a fight that had been pushed upon him, as +all his fights in the sheeplands had been pushed. He might have taken +Swan at his manly offer to fight hand-to-hand to see who should open +the door; or he might have allowed him to open it, and saved all +violence between them. + +And this was the end of Earl Reid's bluff to Carlson that he would +deliver Joan to him there, bargained for and sold after the wild and +lawless reasoning of the Norse flockmaster. And Swan had drawn his +weapon with a glad light in his face, and stood up to him like a man. + +"Throw it down here, Mackenzie--you can't get by with it this time!" + +Mackenzie looked up from his daze of remorseful panic, slowly, +amazedly, not fully realizing that it was a human voice he heard, to +see Reid where he had scrambled to his knees, Carlson's gun in one +hand, the other thrown out to support his unsteady body. + +"You can have it, Earl," Mackenzie said, with the relief in his voice +of a man who has heard good tidings. + +"Hurry!" said Reid, in voice strained and dry. + +"My gun's empty; you can have it too. I'm through," Mackenzie said. + +As he spoke, Mackenzie jerked the lantern sharply, putting it out. +Reid fired. Mackenzie felt the shot strike his thigh like the flip of +a switch when one rides through a thicket. He threw himself upon Reid, +and held his arm while the desperate youth fired his remaining shots +into the wall. + +Mackenzie shook Reid until he dropped the empty revolver, then took +him by the neck and pushed him to the open door. And there the morning +was spreading, showing the trees outlined against the east. + +"Come out here and we'll talk it over, Reid." Mackenzie said. + +Reid had nothing to say. He was sullen, uncontrite. Mackenzie waited a +little while for him to speak, holding him harshly by the collar. + +"Well, there's the road out of this country," Mackenzie said, seeing +he would not speak. "This is the last trick you'll ever try to throw +here on me or anybody else. I suppose you came here on one of +Carlson's horses; go and get it, and when you start, head south." + +Mackenzie felt the leg of his trousers wet from the blood of his +wound, and began to have some concern lest an artery had been cut. But +this he put off investigating until he heard Reid ride out to the dim +road in front of Carlson's cabin, and go his way out of the sheeplands +to whatever destiny lay ahead. + +Then Mackenzie looked himself over, to find that it was not a serious +wound. He bound up the hurt with his handkerchief, and turned his face +away from that tragic spot among the cottonwoods, their leaves moving +with a murmur as of falling rain in the cool morning wind. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIX + +SHEEPMAN--AND MORE + + +"So I just took his gun away from him and slapped him and sent him +on," said Joan. + +"I thought that must have been the way of it," Mackenzie said, sighing +as if his last trouble had left him. + +"When he tried to make me believe I wasn't within seven miles of Dad +Frazer's camp I got my suspicions up. The idea of that little town rat +trying to mix me up on my range! Well, I was a little off on my +estimate of where the wagons were, but that was because they'd been +moved so many times while I was over home." + +"I figured it that way, Joan." + +"But what do you suppose he was tryin' to pull off on me, John, +bringing me out here on the pretense you'd been all shot up in the +fight with Hector Hall and wanted me?" + +"I don't know, Joan," Mackenzie said, lying like the "kind of a +gentleman" he was. + +"I thought maybe the little fool wanted to make me marry him so he +could get some money out of dad." + +"Maybe that was it, Joan; I pass it up." + +"Dad Frazer says Earl was crazy from the lonesomeness and killing Matt +Hall." + +"I think he must have been, Joan. It's over--let's forget it if we +can." + +"Yes, you haven't done a thing but fight since you struck this range," +Joan sighed. + +Mackenzie was lying up in Rabbit's hospital again, undergoing +treatment for the bullet wound in his thigh. He had arrived at Dad +Frazer's camp at sunrise, weak from the drain of his hurt, to find +Joan waiting for him on the rise of the hill. She hurried him into +Rabbit's hands, leaving explanations until later. They had come to the +end of them now. + +But Mackenzie made the reservation of Reid's atrocious, insane scheme +in bringing Joan from home on the pretext that the schoolmaster had +fallen wounded to death in the fight with Hector Hall, and lay calling +for her with his wasting breath. Mackenzie knew that it was better for +her faith in mankind for all her future years, and for the peace of +her soul, that she should never know. + +"My dad was here a little while ago--he's gone over to put a man in to +take care of your sheep, but he'll be along back here this evening. He +wants to talk some business with you, he said." + +"Well, we're ready for him, Joan," Mackenzie said. And the look that +passed between them, and the smile that lighted their lips, told that +their business had been talked and disposed of already, let Tim +Sullivan propose what he might. + +"I'll leave it to you, John," said Joan, blushing a little, her eyes +downcast in modesty, but smiling and smiling like a growing summer +day. + +Tim Sullivan arrived toward evening, entering the sheep-wagon softly, +his loud tongue low in awe for this fighting man. + +"How are you, John? How are you, lad?" he whispered, coming on his +toes to the cot, his face as expressive of respect as if he had come +into the presence of the dead. + +Mackenzie grinned over this great mark of respect in the flockmaster +of Poison Creek. + +"I'm all right," he said. + +Tim sat on an upended box, leaning forward, hat between his knees, +mouth open a bit, looking at Mackenzie as if he had come face to face +with a miracle. + +"You're not hurted much, lad?" he inquired, lifting his voice a +little, the wonder of it gradually passing away. + +"Not much. I'll be around again in nine or ten days, Rabbit says." + +"You will," said Tim, eloquently decisive, as though his heart emptied +itself of a great responsibility, "you will that, and as good as a new +man!" + +"She's better than any doctor I ever saw." + +"She is that!" said Tim, "and cheaper, too." + +His voice grew a little louder, coming thus to familiar ground in the +discussion of values and costs. But the awe of this man who went +fighting his way was still big in the flockmaster's eyes. He sat +leaning, elbows on thighs, mouth still open, as respectfully awed as +if he had just come out of a church. Then, after a little while, +looking around for Joan: + +"What was he up to, John? What was he tryin' to do with my girl?" + +Mackenzie told him, in few words and plain, pledging him to keep the +truth of it from Joan all his days. Tim's face grew pale through the +deep brown of sun and wind. He put his hand to his throat, +unbuttoning his collar with trembling fingers. + +"But she was too smart for him!" he said. "I've brought her up a match +for any of them town fellers--they can't put anything like that over +on my little Joan. And you didn't know but she was there, locked in +and bound hand and foot, lad? And you fought old Swan and laid him +cold at last, hand to hand, man to man! Lord! And you done it for my +little Joan!" + +"Let's forget it," Mackenzie said, uncomfortable under the praise. + +"It's easy said, lad, but not so easy done. A man remembers a thing +the like of that with gratitude to his last hour. And we thought you +an easy-goin' man, that could be put on and wasn't able to hold your +own," said Tim, confessing more in his momentary softness than he +would have done on reflection. + +"We thought you was only a schoolteacher, wrapped up in rhymes and +birds!" + +"Just a plain simpleton that would eat out of anybody's hand," +Mackenzie grinned. + +"Not a simpleton, lad; not a simpleton. But maybe soft in your ways of +dealin' with other men, lettin' 'em go when you ought to knocked 'em +cold, the way you let Hall go the day you took his guns off of him. +But we couldn't see deep in you, lad; you're no simpleton, lad--no +simpleton at all." + +Tim spoke in soothing conciliation, as if he worked to salve over the +old hurts of injustice, or as if he dealt with the mishap of a child +to whom words were more comforting than balm. He was coming back to +his regular sheepman form, crafty, conciliatory; never advancing one +foot without feeling ahead with the other. But the new respect that +had come over him for Mackenzie could not be put wholly aside, even +though Tim might have the disposition to do it. Tim's voice was still +small in his mouth, his manner softened by awe. + +"You've shown the mettle of a sheepman," Tim said, "and more. There'll +be peace and quiet on this range now." + +"I brought nothing but trouble to it. You had peace and quiet before I +came." + +"Trouble was here, lad, but we dodged it. There wasn't a man of us had +the courage to face it and put it down like you've done it. Carlson +and them Halls robbed me year in and year out, and stole the range I +paid rent on from under my feet. Swan stole sheep from me all the time +that boy was runnin' them next him there--I miss about three hundred +from the flock today." + +"Reid sold them to him, but didn't get his money. He complained about +it to Swan last night." + +"He'd do it," nodded Tim; "his father before him done it. It runs in +the blood of them Reids to steal. I'll have them three hundred sheep +back out of Swan's widow tomorrow." + +"Is she over there with the sheep?" + +"I didn't see her around." + +"The poor creature's crazy from her hard usage and suffering. I think +somebody ought to go over there and help her straighten things out." + +"I'll see to it," Tim promised. "Yes, it must be done. Now that wild +devil's dead we must be neighborly with the widow and give her a +chance. I'll see to it tomorrow. Where's my Joan?" + +"She's making some broth for my supper." + +"That's right, that's right--she'll care for you, lad; I'll leave her +here with Rabbit to care for you. Sure. She was for you, all along. I +couldn't see it." + +"Well, you've got it right this time," Mackenzie said. + +Tim beamed. He rubbed his hands, great satisfaction in his face. + +"I'll find somebody else for my Mary--we'll consider her no more," he +said. "Let you go on with Joan in the bargain in place of Mary, and +give me three years for her, and the day you marry her I'll drive over +to you a thousand sheep." + +"Nothing doing," said Mackenzie. + +"Two years, we'll say--two instead of three, John. Joan will be her +own man in two years; she'll be twenty-one. And the day you marry her +I'll make it fifteen hundred sheep." + +"She's her own man now under the laws of this state, and I'm taking +her without a single head of sheep. You can keep them all--Joan is +enough for me." + +Tim was a greatly injured man. His face lengthened two inches, a look +of reproach came into his eyes; he seemed on the point of dissolving +in tears. + +"You're not goin' to quit me and take away my girl, the best one of my +flock, my ewe lamb, my Joan? I didn't think you'd turn on me like +that, lad; I didn't think you had it in your heart!" + +"You took away Joan's ewe lambs, and her buck lambs, and all her +lambs, more than a thousand of them, after she'd served you through +sun and storm and earned them like a man. No, I don't think I could +trust you two years, Mr. Sullivan; I don't believe your memory would +hold you to a bargain that long, seeing that it would be in the +family, especially." + +"I'll give Joan back her flock, to run it like she was runnin' it, and +I'll put it in writin' with you both. Two years, we'll say, John--two +short easy years." + +"No." + +"Don't you throw away your chances now, John, don't you do it, lad. If +you marry my Joan now I'll give you not a sheep, not one blind wether! +But if you'll stay by me a year for her I'll give you a weddin' at the +end of that time they'll put big in the papers at Cheyenne, and I'll +hand over to you three thousand sheep, in your own name." + +"I'm not thinking as much about sheep as I was three months ago," said +Mackenzie, yawning as though he had grown tired of the subject. "Joan +and I have made our plans; you can approve them or turn them down. +We're going away when we're married." + +"Goin' away!" said Tim, his voice betraying the hollowness of his +heart. + +"But we're coming back----" + +"Comin' back?" said Tim, gladness in every note. + +"Joan's heart is in the sheep range--she couldn't tear it away if she +tried. She thought she wanted to go, but I'll have hard work to get +her farther than Jasper. Joan had the lonesomeness; she's cured now." + +"She had, poor gerrel! I didn't see it, but I see it now. But you'll +be comin' back!" + +"Yes. Joan and I belong on the sheep range--we're both too simple and +confiding to run around loose in the world." + +Tim was looking at Mackenzie, his head tipped to one side a little in +his great, new interest, his greater, newer understanding. + +"You'll come back and make it home?" said he. + +"Home," Mackenzie nodded. "There's no other place that calls. You can +welcome us or turn us away, but we'll find a place on the range, and +I've got money enough to buy us a little band of sheep." + +"No need, lad, no need for that. What I have I'll divide with you the +day you come home, for I've made a place in my heart for you that's +the place of a son," said Tim. + +Mackenzie knew the flockmaster had reached a point at last where he +would stand, writing or no writing, for there was the earnestness of +truth in his voice, the vibrant softness of affection. He gave the +flockmaster his hand, saying no word. Tim took it between his own as +if he held a woman's, and held it so while he spoke: + +"And the place is here for you when you come back be it a year from +now or five years. You're a sheepman now, John." + +"And I'm more," said Mackenzie, with a contented sigh. "I'm a +sheepwoman's man." + + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's The Flockmaster of Poison Creek, by George W. 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