[Illustration: Neither spoke, a daze over them, the dull shock of death'sclose 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 hadreasoned it out as a mathematical problem, considering it as a matterof quantities alone. There was nothing in school-teaching at sixtydollars a month when men who had to carry a rubber stamp to sign theirnames to their checks were making fortunes all around him in sheep. 

That was the way it looked to John Mackenzie the morning he set outfor 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. Asheepherder had no use for a horse, in the first place. Secondly andfinally, the money a horse would represent would buy at least twelvehead of ewes. With questioning eyes upon him when he left Jasper, andcontemptuous 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, hadbeen a bondslave of books in that country for four obscure, well-nighprofitless years, and he was done with them for a while. The less asheepman knew about books, the more he was bound to know about sheep, for sheep would be the object and aim of his existence. Mackenzie knewplenty of sheepmen who never had looked into any kind of a book but abank-deposit book in their lives. That seemed to be education enoughto carry them very nicely along, even to boost them to the statelegislature, and lift one of them to the United States senate. So, what was the use of worrying along on a mission of enlightenment atsixty dollars a month?

Mackenzie had not come into the West in a missionary spirit at thebeginning. He had not believed the youth of that section to be in anygreater depths of ignorance than elsewhere in this more or lessfavored land. But from his earliest years he had entertained romanticnotions, adventurous desires. With his normal-school certificate inhis breast pocket, tight trousers on his rather long legs, a shortvest scarcely meeting them at the waistband, he had traveled into theWest, seeking romance, alert for adventure. 

When he arrived at Jasper, which was only the inter-mountain West, andfar from the golden coast of his most fervid dreams, he found thatadventure and romance apparently had packed up and gone elsewhereyears ahead of him. There was nothing nearer either of them in Jasperthan a tame gambling-joint in the back end of a saloon, where greasy, morose sheepherders came to stake quarters on roulette and faro, whererailroaders squandered away their wages, leaving the grocerymenunpaid. And there was no romance for John Mackenzie in any suchproceeding 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, nohabits that pulled a man down, unless a fondness for his briar-rootpipe might be so classed. But in the way Mackenzie smoked the pipe itwas more in the nature of a sacrifice to his gods of romance than evena mild dissipation. 

In the four years of his school-teaching at Jasper Mackenzie slowlygrew out of his extreme rawness of appearance. His legs hardened fromlong rambles over the hills, his face browned like an outdoor man's, his rustic appearance, his clabber-days shyness, all slowly dissolvedaway. But the school board was not cognizant of any physical or mentalstrengthening in him. He was worth sixty dollars a month to thatslow-thinking body when he came to Jasper; he was worth no more thansixty dollars when he threw up the job and left. 

Romance and adventure had called him away to the road at last, but theromance of sheep-riches, the adventure of following a flock over thesage-gray hills. Maybe he would find it too late even to glimpse themwhen he arrived in the heart of the sheeplands; perhaps times hadshifted since the heavy-jowled illiterates whom he had met in Jasperbegan their careers with a few pounds of dried apples and uncommonendurance for hardships in the open fields. 

Simple, they thought him down in Jasper, in the mild simplicity of apreacher or any man who would not fight. In their classification hewas a neutral force, an emasculated, mild, harmless creature who heldthe child's view of life from much association with children. He oftenhad heard it said. 

A man never could advance to notability in a community that rated himas mildly simple; he would have a hard time of it even to becomenotorious. Only one man there had taken an interest in him as man toman, 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 withhis 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 onshares. But his range was in sight of Jasper; there was no romance onhis 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 inthat country ever had walked it, as far as he could learn--to TimSullivan's ranch on Poison Creek. Now, in the decline of the fifth dayhe had come to Poison Creek, a loud, a rapid, and boisterous streamwhich a man could cross in two jumps. It made a great amount of noisein its going over the boulders in its bed, as a little water in a vastarid land probably was justified by its importance in doing. It wasthe 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 mountainsource. 

But somewhere along its course Tim Sullivan grazed and watered fortythousand sheep; and beyond him were others who grazed and watered manytimes that number. Poison Creek might well enough merit its name fromthe slaver of many flocks, the schoolmaster thought, although he knewit came from pioneer days, and was as obscure as pioneer names usuallyare obscure. 

And some day he would be watering his thousands of sheep along itsrushing vein. That was John Mackenzie's intent and purpose as hetrudged the dusty miles of gray hills, with their furze of gray sage, and their gray twilights which fell with a melancholy silence aschilling as the breath of death. For John Mackenzie was going intothe sheeplands to become a master. He had determined it all bymathematical rule. 

There was the experience to be gained first, and it was cheaper to dothat at another man's expense than his own. He knew how the right kindof a man could form a partnership with a flockmaster sometimes; he hadheard stories of such small beginnings leading to large ownership andoily prosperity. Jasper had examples of its own; he was familiar withthem all. 

Some of them began as herders on the basis of half the increase from astated number of sheep not more than ten years past. Now they lookedupon a sixty-dollars-a-month schoolteacher with the eyes ofsuperiority, as money always despises brains which it is obliged tohire, probably because brains cannot devise any better method offinding the necessary calories than that of letting themselves out bythe month. 

Tim Sullivan needed herders; he had advertised for them in the Jasperpaper. Besides, Tim had the name of a man who could see thepossibilities in another. He had put more than one young fellow on theway of success in the twenty years he had been running sheep on thePoison Creek range. But failing to land a partnership deal withSullivan, Mackenzie was prepared to take a job running sheep by themonth. Or, should he find all avenues to experience at another man'sexpense closed to him, he was ready to take the six hundred dollarssaved out of his years of book bondage and buy a little flock of hisown. Somewhere in that wide expanse of government-owned land he wouldfind water and grazing, and there his prosperity would increase. 

Sheep had visited the creek lately at the point where Mackenzie firstencountered it, but there were no dusty flocks in sight billowing overthe hills. Tim Sullivan's house was not to be seen any more thansheep, from the highest hill in the vicinity. It must be several milesahead of him still, Mackenzie concluded, remembering that Poison Creekwas long. Yet he hoped he might reach it by nightfall, for his feetwere growing weary of the untrodden way they had borne him for ahundred and fifty miles, more or less. 

He pushed on, now and again crossing the broad trail left by bands ofsheep counting two or three thousand, feeling the lonesomeness of theunpeopled land softened by these domestic signs. Sunset, and no sightof a house; nightfall, and not the gleam of a light to show him eitherherder's camp or permanent domicile of man. 

Mackenzie lingered beside the clamoring water in a little valley wherethe uncropped grass was lush about his feet, considering making campthere for the night. It was a pleasant place for a land so bleak, evenin 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'svoice raised in song, and stood so, hand on the strap, listening. 

The voice was faint, broken by the distance, yet cheering because itwas a voice. Mackenzie pressed up the hill, hoping to be able tothread the voice back to its source from that eminence. As he nearedthe top the voice came clearer; as he paused to listen, it seemedquite close at hand. It was a woman singing, and this was the mannerof 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 darkerfor the indefinite blotch of something that appeared to be trees. Inthat grove the house that sheltered the melancholy singer must behidden, so completely shrouded that not even a gleam of light escapedto lead him to the door. Mackenzie stood listening. There was no othersound rising from that sequestered homestead than the woman's song, and this was as doleful as any sound that ever issued from humanlips. 

Over and over again the woman sang the three lines, a silence afterthe last long, tremulous note which reached to the traveler's heart, more eloquent in its expression of poignant loneliness than thehopeless repetition of the song. He grinned dustily as he foundhimself wishing, in all seriousness, that somebody would take a dayoff and teach her the rest of the hymn. 

Mackenzie's bones were weary of the road, hard as he tried to makehimself believe they were not, and that he was a tough man, ready totake 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 coffeeto gladden his gizzard. Coffee he had not carried with him, much lessa coffeepot; his load would be heavy enough without them, he rightlyanticipated, before he reached Tim Sullivan's. Nothing more cheeringthan water out of the holes by the way had passed his lips these fivedays. 

He could forgive the woman her song if she would supply some of thecomforts of those who luxuriated in houses for just this one night. Hewent on, coming soon to barbed wire along the way, and presently to agap 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 lightshowing as Mackenzie drew near, although the voice of the woman stillrose in the plaintive monotony of her song. 

Mackenzie put as much noise into his arrival as was possible bywalking heavily, knowing very well that a surprise by night is not agood 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 thehouse Mackenzie saw a dim light falling through an open door, intowhich the shadow of the woman came. 

A little way from the door Mackenzie halted, hat in hand, giving thewoman good evening. She stood within the threshold a few feet, thelight of the lantern hanging in an angle of the wall over her, bendingforward in the pose of one who listened. She was wiping a plate, whichshe held before her breast in the manner of a shield, stiffly in bothhands. Her eyes were large and full of a frightened surprise, her paleyellow hair was hanging in slovenly abandon down her cheeks and overher ears. 

She was a tall woman, thin of frame, worn and sad, but with a fadedcomeliness of face, more intelligence apparent in it than is commonlyshown by Scandinavian women of the peasant class who share the laborsand the loads of their men on the isolated homesteads of theNorthwest. She stood so, leaning and staring, her mouth standing openas if the song had been frightened out so quickly that it had no timeto shut the door. 

"Good evening, madam, " said Mackenzie again. 

She came out of her paralysis of fright and surprise at the assuringsound of his voice. He drew nearer, smiling to show his friendlyintention, the lantern light on the close, flat curls of his fairhair, 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 whichbalanced well the marvelous tenderness of his smile. Not a handsomeman, but a man whose simple goodness shone in his features like afriendly lamp. The woman in the door advanced a timid step; the colordeepened in her pale and melancholy face. 

"I thought it was my man, " she said, her voice soft and slow, alabored effort in it to speak without the harsh dialect so apparent inher song. 

"I am a traveler, Mackenzie is my name, on my way to Tim Sullivan'ssheep ranch. My grub has run low; I'd like to get some supper if youcan 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 itdown 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 ison the wind like a curse. Better you would go on, sir; my man wouldkill 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 adragging chain. Mackenzie had heard it before when she stepped nearerthe door, and now he bent to look into the shadow that fell over thefloor 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 toshow 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. Shehad a freedom of not more than sixteen feet, one end of the chainwelded about her ankle, the other set in a staple driven into a log ofthe wall. She had wrapped the links with cloths to save her flesh, butfor all of that protection she walked haltingly, as if the limb weresore. 

"I never heard of such inhuman treatment!" Mackenzie declared, hot tothe bone in his burning resentment of this barbarity. "How long has hekept 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 thisway for? Why didn't some of your neighbors take a hand in it?"

"Nobody comes, " she sighed, shaking her head sadly. "The name of SwanCarlson is a curse on the wind. Nobody passes; we are far from anyroad that men travel; your face is the first I have seen since Swanput 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 leftin 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. Youmust 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 rustedodds and ends in the barn, although there was an anvil, such as everyrancher in that country had, fastened to a stump in the yard, a hammerrusting beside it on the block. As Mackenzie stood considering whatcould be done with the material at hand, the woman called to him fromthe 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 hemight break the chain near her foot and give her liberty, at least. Apile 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 herin threat of throttling out her life as he had smothered thesheepherders in the tragedy that gave him his evil fame. Mackenzieurged her to a chair, giving her the lantern to hold and, with theedge 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 sharpexclamation 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, thesweat on his lean cheek glistening in the light. 

"It is my fear that he will come too soon. Strike fast, good youngman, strike fast!"

If Swan Carlson had been within half a mile he would have split thewind to find out the cause of such a clanging in his shunned andproscribed house, and that he did not appear before the chain wassevered was evidence that he was nowhere near at hand. When the cutlinks fell to the floor Mrs. Carlson stood the lantern down withgentle deliberation, as if preparing to enter the chamber of someonein a desperate sickness to whom had come a blessed respite of sleep. Then she stood, her lips apart, her breath suspended, lifting herfreed foot with a joyous relief in its lightness. 

Mackenzie remained on his knees at her feet, looking up strangely intoher face. Suddenly she bent over him, clasped his forehead between herhands, kissed his brow as if he were her son. A great hot tearsplashed down upon his cheek as she rose again, a sob in her throatthat ended in a little, moaning cry. She tossed her long arms like aneagle set free from a cramping cage, her head thrown back, herstreaming hair far down her shoulders. There was an appealing grace inher tall, spare body, a strange, awakening beauty in her haggardface. 

"God sent you, " she said. "May He keep His hand over you wherever yougo. "

Mackenzie got to his feet; she picked up the ax and leaned it againstthe table close to her hand. 

"I will give you eggs, you can cook them at a fire, " she said, "andbread I will give you, but butter I cannot give. That I have nottasted since I came to this land, four years ago, a bride. "

She moved about to get the food, walking with awkwardness on the footthat had dragged the chain so long, laughing a little at her effortsto regain a normal balance. 

"Soon it will pass away, and I will walk like a lady, as I once knewhow. "

"But I don't want to cook at a fire, " Mackenzie protested; "I want youto make me some coffee and fry me some eggs, and then we'll see aboutthings. "

She came close to him, her great gray eyes seeming to draw him untilhe gazed into her soul. 

"No; you must go, " she said. "It will be better when Swan comes thatnobody 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'mnot going; I'll stay right here till he comes. "

"No, " shaking her head in sad earnestness, "better it will be for allthat 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 hairback from her face, her deep grave eyes holding him again in theirearnest appeal, "then I will stand by the door and kill him with theax!"

CHAPTER II

SWAN CARLSON

Mackenzie found it hard to bend the woman from this plan of summaryvengeance. She had suffered and brooded in her loneliness so long, thecruel hand of Swan Carlson over her, that her thoughts had beaten apath to this desire. This self-administration of justice seemed nowher life's sole aim. She approached it with glowing eyes and flushedcheeks; she had lived for that hour. 

Harshly she met Mackenzie's efforts at first to dissuade her from thislong-planned deed, yielding a little at length, not quite promising towithhold her hand when the step of her savage husband should soundoutside the door. 

"If you are here when he comes, then it will do for another night; ifyou are gone, then I will not say. "

That was the compromise she made with him at last, turning with nomore argument to prepare his supper, carrying the ax with her as shewent about the work. Often she stood in rigid concentration, listeningfor the sound of Swan's coming, such animation in her eyes as abride's might show in a happier hour than hers. She sat opposite hervisitor as he made his supper on the simple food she gave him, andtold him the story of her adventure into that heartless land, theax-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 thecustom is, and could speak it fairly when family reverses carried herlike a far-blown seed to America. She had no business training, forwhat should a minister's wife know of business beyond the affairs ofthe parish and the economy of her own home? She found, therefore, nothing open to her hands in America save menial work in thehouseholds of others. 

Not being bred to it, nor the intention or thought of it as a futurecontingency, she suffered in humbling herself to the services ofpeople who were at once her intellectual and social inferiors. The oneadvantage in it was the improvement of her English speech, throughwhich she hoped for better things in time. 

It was while she was still new to America, its customs and socialadjustments, and the shame of her menial situation burned in her soullike a corrosive acid, that she saw the advertisement of Swan Carlsonin 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 hisholdings in sheep and land, of his money in the bank. 

A dream of new consequence in this strange land came to HerthaJacobsen as she read the advertisement, as she studied the features ofSwan Carlson, his bold face looking at her from the page. She had seenmen, and the women of such men sharing their honors, who had risenfrom peasants to governors and senators, to positions of wealth andconsequence in this strange land with all the romance of a tale out ofa book. Perhaps fate had urged her on to this unfriendly shore onlyto feed her on the bitter herbs for her purification for a betterlife. 

The minister of her church investigated Swan Carlson and his claims, finding him all that he professed to be. Hertha wrote to him; in timeSwan came to visit her, a tall, long-striding man, handsomer than hispicture in the paper, handsome as a Viking lord with his proud foot onthe neck of a fallen foe. 

So she married him, and came away with him to the sheeplands, andSwan's hand was as tender of her as a summer wind. It was shearingtime when they reached home; Swan was with her every day for a littlewhile, gathering his flocks from the range into the shearing sheds. Hewas master of more than fifteen thousand sheep. 

When the shearing was done, and Swan had gone with his wagons to shipthe clip, returning with his bankbook showing thousands in addedwealth, a change came into her life, so radiant with the blossoms of anew happiness. Swan's big laugh was not so ready in his throat anymore; his great hand seemed forgetful of its caress. He told her thatthe time of idling now was over; she must go with him in a sheep-wagonto the range and care for her band of sheep, sharing the labors of hislife as she shared its rewards. 

No; that was not to her liking. The wife of a rich man should not liveas a peasant woman, dew in her draggled skirts to her knees, the sunbrowning her skin and bleaching her hair. It was not for his woman togive 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 sherecovered, the sheep-wagon was rocking her in its uneasy journey tothe distant range. Swan's cruelties multiplied with his impatience ather slowness to master the shepherd's art. The dogs were sullencreatures, unused to a woman's voice, unfriendly to a woman'spresence. Swan insisted that she lay aside her woman's attire anddress as a man to gain the good-will of the dogs. 

Again she defied his authority, all her refinement rising against thedegradation of her sex; again Swan laid her senseless with a blow. When she woke her limbs were clad in overalls, a greasy jumper wasbuttoned over her breast. But the dogs were wiser than their master;no disguise of man's could cover her from the contempt of their shrewdsenses. They would not obey her shrilled commands. 

Very well, said Swan; if she did not have it in her to win even therespect of a dog, let her do a dog's work. So he took the colliesaway, 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, hecursed her for her carelessness, giving her blows which were kinderthan his words. 

With the first snow she abandoned her flock and fled. Disgraceful asit was for a woman to leave her man, the frenzy of loneliness droveher on. With his companionship she could have endured Swan's cruelty, but alone her heart was dead. Three days she wandered. Swan found herafter she had fallen in the snow. 

His great laugh woke her, and she was home in this house, the light ofday in her eyes. Swan was sitting beside her, merry in the thought ofhow he had cheated her out of her intention to die like an old eweamong the mountain drifts. 

She was good for nothing, he said, but to sit at home like a cat. Buthe 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 beggarto his bosom. Then he brought the chain and the anvil, and welded thered-hot iron upon her limb. He laughed when the smoke of her burningflesh 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. Inthe time that had passed, Swan had come into the ways of trouble, suffering a great drain upon his hoarded money, growing as aconsequence sullen and somber in his moods. No more he laughed; eventhe distress of his chained wife, the sight of her wasting face andbody, the pleading of her tortured eyes, could not move his loud galesof 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. Thatwas the winter following her attempt to run away, Swan being alonewith them upon the stormy range. He declared both of them set upon himat once like wolves, and that he fought only to defend his life. Hestrangled them, the throat of each grasped in his broad, thick hand, and held them from him so, stiff arms against their desperatestruggles, until they sank down in the snow and died. 

Only a little while ago the lawyers had got him off from the charge ofmurder, after long delays. The case had been tried in another county, for Swan Carlson's neighbors all believed him guilty of a horriblecrime; no man among them could have listened to his story under oathwith unprejudiced ear. The lawyers had brought Swan off, for at theend it had been his living word against the mute accusations of twodead men. There was nobody to speak for the herders; so the lawyershad set him free. But it had cost him thousands of dollars, and Swan'sevil humor had deepened with the drain. 

Crazy, he said of his wife; a poor mad thing bent on self-destructionin wild and mournful ways. In that Swan was believed, at least. Nobodycame to inquire of her, none ever stopped to speak a word. The nearestneighbor was twelve or fifteen miles distant, a morose man with sourface, master of a sea of sheep. 

All of this Swan himself had told her in the days when he laughed. Hetold her also of the lawyers' drain upon his wealth, starving her daystogether to make a pebble of saving to fill the ruthless breach. 

"Tonight Swan will come, " she said. "After what I have told you, areyou not afraid?"

"I suppose I ought to be, " Mackenzie returned, leaving her to form herown conclusion. 

She searched his face with steady eyes, her hand on the ax-helve, inearnest effort to read his heart. 

"No, you are not afraid, " she said. "But wait; when you hear himspeak, 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 atMackenzie's side, her face was set in the tensity of her mentalconcentration as she listened. Mackenzie bent all his faculties tohear if any foot approached. There was no sound. 

"The fishermen of my country can feel the chill of an iceberg throughthe fog and the night, " she said at last. "Swan Carlson is an icebergto my heart. "

She listened again, bending forward, her lips open. Mackenzie fanciedhe heard the swing of a galloping hoof-beat, and turned toward thedoor. 

"Have you a pistol?" she inquired. 

"No. "

"He is coming; in a little while he will be at the door. There is timeyet 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 theother side of the door, where she stationed herself in such positionas Swan must see her first when he looked within. She disposed the axto conceal it entirely beneath her long apron, her hand under thegarment grasping the helve. 

"For your own sake, not his, I ask you not to strike him, " Mackenziepleaded, in all the earnestness he could command. 

"I have given you the hour of my vengeance, " she replied. "But if hecurses me, if he lifts his hand!"

Mackenzie was more than a little uneasy on the probable outcome ofhis meeting with the tempestuous Swan. He got out his pipe and lit it, considering the situation with fast-running thoughts. Still, a mancould not go on and leave that beaten, enslaved woman to the merciesof her tyrant; Swan Carlson must be given to understand that he wouldbe 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 supperready, " said he. 

Mrs. Carlson got up at the suggestion, with such readiness thatsurprised Mackenzie, put the ax back of the open door, stood a momentwinding up her fallen hair. 

"Yes, he is my man, " she said. 

Swan was turning his horse into the barn; Mackenzie could hear himtalking to the animal, not unkindly. Mrs. Carlson put fresh fuel inthe stove, making a rattling of the lids which must have soundedcheerful to the ears of a hungry man. As she began breaking eggs intoa bowl she took up her song again, with an unconscious air ofdetachment from it, as one unwittingly follows the habit that has beenfor years the accompaniment to a task. 

As before, the refinement of accent was wanting in her words, but thesweet melancholy of her voice thrilled her listener like the richnotes 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 turnedtoward the door, just within the threshold and a little to one side, where the flockmaster would see him the moment he stepped into thelight. The traveler's pack lay on the floor at the door jamb; thesmoke from his pipe drifted out to tell of his presence in the honestannouncement 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, butstood bending a little over the pan of sputtering eggs, which sheshook gently from side to side with a rhythmic, slow movement incadence with her song. Swan turned his eyes from one to the other, hisface clouding for a moment as for a burst of storm, clearing again atonce as Mackenzie rose and gave him good evening in cheerful andunshaken voice. 

Mrs. Carlson had spoken a true word when she described Swan as ahandsome man. Almost seven feet tall, Mackenzie took him to be, sotall 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, andhis presence in the house in the same breath. Mollified, Swan gruntedthat he understood and accepted the explanation, turning up hissleeves, unfastening the collar of his flannel shirt, to wash. Hiswoman stood at the stove, her song dead on her lips, sliding the eggsfrom the pan onto a platter in one piece. Swan gave her no heed, noteven a curious or questioning look, but as he crossed the room to thewash bench he saw the broken chain lying free upon the floor. 

A breath he paused over it, his eyes fastened on it in a gloweringstare. Mackenzie braced himself for the storm of wrath which seemedbursting the doors of Swan Carlson's gloomy heart. But Swan did notspeak. He picked up the chain, examined the cut link, threw it downwith a clatter. At the sound of its fall Mackenzie saw Mrs. Carlsonstart. 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 putbefore him when he sat down to his supper. One end of the greattrencher was heaped with brown bacon; a stack of bread stood at Swan'sleft hand, a cup of coffee at his right. Before this provender theflockmaster squared himself, the unwelcome guest across the table fromhim, the smoke of his pipe drifting languidly out into the tranquilsummer night. 

Swan had said no word since his first inquiry. Mackenzie had venturednothing more. Mrs. Carlson sat down in the chair that she had placednear the door before Swan's arrival, only that she moved it a littleto bring her hand within reach of the hidden ax. 

Swan had brushed his long, dark-red hair back from his broad, deepforehead, bringing it down across the tips of his ears in a savagefashion admirably suited to his grave, harsh, handsome face. Hedevoured his food noisily, bending low over his plate. 

"You want to learn the sheep business, huh?" said he, throwing up hiseyes in quick challenge, pausing a moment in his champing and clatter. Mackenzie nodded, pipe raised toward his lips. "Well, you come to theright country. You ever had any work around a ranch?"

"No. "

"No, I didn't think you had; you look too soft. How much can youlift?"

"What's that got to do with sheep?" Mackenzie inquired, frowning inhis habitual manner of showing displeasure with frivolous and triflingthings. 

"I can shoulder a steel rail off of the railroad that weighs sevenhundred and fifty pounds, " said Swan. "You couldn't lift one end. "

"Maybe I couldn't, " Mackenzie allowed, pretending to gaze out afterhis drifting smoke, but watching the sheepman, as he mopped the lastof the eggs up with a piece of bread, with a furtive turning of hiseye. He was considering how to approach the matter which he hadremained there to take up with this great, boasting, savage man, andhow he could make him understand that it was any of society's businesswhether he chained his wife or let her go free, fed her or starvedher, caressed her, or knocked her down. 

Swan pushed back from the table, wringing the coffee from hismustache. 

"Did you cut that chain?" he asked. 

"Yes, I cut it. You've got no right to keep your wife, or anybodyelse, chained up. You could be put in jail for it; it's against thelaw. "

"A man's got a right to do what he pleases with his own woman; she'shis property, the same as a horse. "

"Not exactly the same as a horse, either. But you could be put in jailfor beating your horse. I've waited here to tell you about this, in afriendly way, and warn you to treat this woman right. Maybe you didn'tknow 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 musthave read an intention of violence in his face, although Mackenziecould mark no change in his features, always as immobile as bronze. She sprang to her feet, her bosom agitated, arms lifted, shouldersraised, as if to shrink from the force of a blow. She made no effortto 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 mewe've got to have a fight, " he said. 

CHAPTER III

THE FIGHT

Mackenzie got up, keeping the table between them. He looked at thedoor, calculating whether he could make a spring for the ax beforeCarlson could grapple him. Carlson read in the glance an intention toretreat, made a quick stride to the door, closed it sharply, lockedit, put the key in his pocket. He stood a moment looking Mackenzieover, as if surprised by the length he unfolded when on his feet, butwith no change of anger or resentment in his stony face. 

"You didn't need to lock the door, Carlson; I wasn't going to runaway--I didn't wait here to see you for that. "

Mackenzie stood in careless, lounging pose, hand on the back of hischair, pipe between his fingers, a rather humorous look in his eyes ashe measured Carlson up and down. 

"Come out here in the middle and fight me if you ain't afraid!" Swanchallenged, derision in his voice. 

"I'll fight you, all right, after I tell you what I waited here tosay. You're a coward, Swan Carlson, you're a sheepman with a sheep'sheart. I turned your woman loose, and you're going to let her stayloose. Let that sink into your head. "

Carlson was standing a few feet in front of Mackenzie, leaningforward, his shoulders swelling and falling as if he flexed hismuscles for a spring. His arms he held swinging in front of him fulllength, like a runner waiting for the start, in a posture at onceunpromising and uncouth. Behind him his wife shuddered against thewall. 

"Swan, Swan! O-o-oh, Swan, Swan!" she said, crying it softly as if shechided 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 blowthat would have felled a man. She staggered back a pace, then sanklimply forward on her knees, her hands outreaching on the floor, herhair falling wildly, her posture that of a suppliant at a barbarianconqueror's feet. 

Mackenzie snatched the heavy platter from the table and broughtCarlson a smashing blow across the head. Carlson stood weaving on hislegs a moment as the fragments of the dish clattered around him, swaying like a tree that waits the last blow of the ax to determinewhich way it will fall. Mackenzie threw the fragment that remained inhis hand into Carlson's face, laying open a long gash in his cheek. Asthe hot blood gushed down over his jaw Carlson steadied himself on hisswaying legs and laughed. 

Mrs. Carlson lifted her face out of the shadows of the floor at thesound. Mackenzie glanced at her, the red mark of Swan's harsh blowacross her brows, as he flew at Swan like a desert whirlwind, landingheavily on his great neck before he could lift a guard. The blowstaggered Carlson over upon his wife, and together they collapsedagainst the wall, where Carlson stood a breath, his hand thrown out tosave him from a fall. Then he shook his haughty, handsome, barbarianhead, and laughed again, a loud laugh, deep and strong. 

There was no note of merriment in that sound, no inflection ofsatisfaction or joy. It came out of his wide-extended jaws with aroar, no facial softening with it, no blending of the features in thetransformation of a smile. Mrs. Carlson struggled to her knees at thesound of it, lifting her moaning cry again at the sight of his gushingblood. Swan charged his adversary with bent head, the floor tremblingunder his heavy feet, his great hands lifted to seize and crush. 

Mackenzie backed away, upsetting the table between them, barring for amoment Swan's mad onrush. In the anger-blind movements of the man hecould read his intention, which was not to strike foot to foot, kneeto knee, but to grapple and smother, as he had smothered thesheepherders in the snow. Across the overturned table Mackenzie landedanother blow, sprang around the barrier out of the pocket of cornerinto which Carlson was bent on forcing him, hoping by nimble foot workto play on the flockmaster for a knockout. 

Swan threw a chair as Mackenzie circled out of his reach with nimblefeet, knocking down the stovepipe, dislodging a shower of tinware fromthe shelves behind. Carlson had him by the shoulder now, but a deftturn, a sharp blow, and Mackenzie was free, racing over the clutteredfloor in wild uproar, bending, side-stepping, in a strained andterrific race. Carlson picked up the table, swung it overhead until itstruck the ceiling, threw it with all his mighty strength to crush theman who had evaded him with such clever speed. A leg caught Mackenziea glancing blow on the head, dazing him momentarily, giving Carlsonthe 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 lighton it fairly. There was no light of exultation in it as his great handclosed slowly upon Mackenzie's throat, no change from its stonyharshness save for the dark gash and the flood of blood that ran downhis jaw and neck. 

Mackenzie writhed and struggled, groping on the floor for something tostrike Carlson with and break his garroting grip. The blood wassinging in his ears, the breath was cut from his lungs; his eyesflashed a thousand scintillating sparks and grew dark. His hand strucksomething in the debris on the floor, the handle of a table knife itseemed, and with the contact a desperate accession of life heaved inhim 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 hisfingers relax, heard him curse and growl. A quick turn and he wasfree, with a glimpse as he rolled over at Swan Carlson pulling a tablefork out of his hairy wrist. 

Mackenzie felt blood in his mouth; his ears were muffled as if he wereunder water, but he came to his feet with a leg of the broken table inhis hand. Swan threw the fork at him as he rose from his knees; itstruck the lantern, breaking the globe, cutting off more than half thedim 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 anintended blow. Swan tore a broad plank from the table top, split itover his knee to make it better fit his hand, and came on to theattack, bending in his slouching, bearish attitude of defiantstrength. Mackenzie gave way before him, watching his moment to strikethe decisive blow. 

This maneuver brought Mackenzie near the door, where the wild-eyedwoman stood, an ally and a reserve, ready to help him in the moment ofhis extremity. He believed she had been on the point of striking Swanthe moment his fingers closed in their convulsive pang of death overthe handle of the fork. 

Swan followed, warily now, conscious of this man's unexpected strengthand agility, and of his resources in a moment of desperation, makingfeints with his board as a batter does before the ball is thrown. Mackenzie passed Mrs. Carlson, backing away from Swan, sparring fortime to recover his wind and faculties after his swift excursion tothe borderland of death. He parried a swift blow, giving one in returnthat caught Swan on the elbow and knocked the plank out of his hand. Mackenzie sprang forward to follow up his advantage with a decisivestroke, when, to his amazement, Mrs. Carlson threw herself betweenthem, 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 torecover his board. But he flung it down again, taking the ax in itsplace, pushing his woman, not without some tenderness in his hand, back into the corner, throwing himself in front of her, his wildlaugh ringing in the murky room, stifling from the smoke of lanternand stove. 

Mackenzie felt his hope break like a rope of straw at this unexpectedturn of the woman. With those two mad creatures--for mad he believedthe isolation and cruelty suffered by the one, the trouble and terrorof the law by the other, had driven them--leagued against him itseemed that he must put down all hope of ever looking again upon theday. 

If there was any chance for him at all, it lay in darkness. With thisthought Mackenzie made a quick dash past Carlson, smashing the lanternwith a blow. 

There was one window in the room, a small, single-sash opening nearthe stove. Even this was not apparent for a little while following theplunge into the dark; Mackenzie stood still, waiting for his eyes toadjust themselves to the gloom. No sound but Carlson's breathing camefrom the other side of the kitchen. The square of window appeareddimly now, a little to Mackenzie's left. He moved cautiously away fromit, yet not without noise for all his care. Swan let drive with hisboard at the sound of movement. His aim was good; it struckMackenzie's shoulder, but fortunately with its flat surface, doing nohurt. 

Mackenzie threw himself down heavily, getting cautiously to his feetagain instantly, hoping to draw Carlson over in the belief that he hadput him out of the fight. But Carlson was not so rash. He struck amatch, holding it up, peering under it, blinking in the sudden light. 

Mackenzie was not more than eight feet away. He closed the distance ina bound, swung the heavy oak table leg, and stretched Carlson on thefloor. Mrs. Carlson began wailing and moaning, bending over her fallentyrant, 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 hisfoot. He bent over Carlson, exploring for his heart, fearing that hehad killed him, indeed. His first efforts to locate a pulse were notassuring, but a feeble throbbing at last announced that the greatruffian's admirable machinery was stunned, not broken. 

"Open the door; he'll be all right in a little while, " Mackenziesaid. 

Mrs. Carlson was moaning in a sorrow as genuine as if the fallen manhad been the kindest husband that fate could have sent her, and notthe heartless beast that he was. She found the key and threw the dooropen, letting in a cool, sweet breath of the night. Under it Carlsonwould soon revive, Mackenzie believed. He had no desire to linger andwitness the restoration. 

Mackenzie had a bruised and heavy feeling about him as he shoulderedhis pack and hurried from that inhospitable door. He knew that SwanCarlson was not dead, and would not die from that blow. Why thefeeling persisted as he struck off up the creek through the dew-wetgrass he could not tell, but it was strong upon him that Swan Carlsonwould come into his way again, to make trouble for him on a futureday. 

CHAPTER IV

KEEPER OF THE FLOCK

John Mackenzie, late schoolmaster of Jasper, marched on through thecool of the night, regretting that he had meddled in the domesticarrangements of Swan Carlson, the Swede. The outcome of his attemptedkindness to the oppressed woman had not been felicitous. Indeed, hewas troubled greatly by the fear that he had killed Swan Carlson, andthat grave consequences might rise out of this first adventure thatever fell in his way. 

Perhaps adventure was not such a thing to be sought as he hadimagined, he reflected; hand to his swollen throat. There was an achein his crushed windpipe, a dryness in his mouth, a taste of blood onhis tongue. That had been a close go for him, there on the floor underSwan Carlson's great knee; a few seconds longer, and his firstadventure would have been his last. 

Yet there was a vast satisfaction in knowing what was in him. Here hehad stood foot to foot with the strong man of the sheeplands, thestrangler, the fierce, half-insane terror of peaceful men, and hadcome off the victor. He had fought this man in his own house, where aman will fight valiantly, even though a coward on the road, and hadleft 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 thebest that had gone before was nothing more than a harmless spatcompared to this. The marvel of it was how he had developed thisquality of defense in inactivity. There must have been somepsychological undercurrent carrying strength and skill to him throughall the years of his romantic imaginings; the spirits of old heroes ofthat land must have lent him their counsel and might in that desperatebattle with the Norse flockmaster. 

Adventure was not dead out of the land, it seemed, although this was arather sordid and ignoble brand. It had descended to base levels amongbase men who lived with sheep and thought only of sheep-riches. Violence among such men as Swan Carlson was merely violence, with noneof the picturesque embellishments of the olden days when men slungpistols with a challenge and a hail, in those swift battles whereskill was all, bestial strength nothing. 

Mackenzie hoped to find Tim Sullivan different from the general run ofsheep-rich men. There must be some of the spice of romance in a manwho had the wide reputation of Tim Sullivan, and who was the hero ofso many tales of success. 

It was Mackenzie's hope that this encounter with the wild sheepmanmight turn out to his profit with Tim Sullivan. He always had believedthat he should win fortune fighting if it ever fell to his portion atall. This brush with Swan Carlson confirmed his old belief. If therewas any good luck for him in the sheep country, it would come to himthrough a fight, Mackenzie considered these things as he marched on away from SwanCarlson's homestead, thinking the safe plan would be to put severalmiles between himself and that place before lying down to rest. Atdawn Swan would be out after him with a gun, more than likely. Mackenzie had nothing of the sort in his slender equipment. Imagine aman going into the sheep country carrying a gun! The gun days of theWest were done; he had seen only one cowboy wearing one in his fouryears at Jasper. 

Past midnight Mackenzie came to a little valley where somebody hadbeen cutting hay. The late-risen moon discovered the little mounds ofhay thick around him, the aroma of the curing herbage was blowing tohim an invitation to stop and sleep. Let Swan Carlson come when hemight, that was the place prepared for the traveler's repose. 

Romance or no romance, riches or poverty, he was through with awoman's work, he told himself. Once there had been ideals ahead of himin educational work, but the contempt of men had dispelled them. If hecould not find his beginning in the sheep country, he would turnelsewhere. A man who had it in him to fight giants wasn't cut out forteaching school. 

Mackenzie sat with his back to a haycock thinking in this vein. Thesound of running water was near; he went to the creek and bathed histhroat, easing its burning with a deep swig. Back again to the hay, still building new victories, and nobler ones, on the foundation ofthis triumph over Swan Carlson, the red giant who choked men to deathin the snow. 

Morning discovered no habitation in reach of the eye. That littlefield of mown hay stood alone among the gray hills, unfenced, unfended, secure in its isolation, a little patch of something in thewilderness that looked like home. Mackenzie must have put many milesbehind him since leaving Carlson's door. Looking back, he could followthe course of the creek where it snaked through the hills, dark greenof willow and cottonwood fresh among the hemming slopes of sage, butno trace of Carlson's trees could he see. 

Mackenzie had no flour to mix a wad of dough, and but a heel of abacon side to furnish a breakfast. It was so unpromising in hispresent hungry state that he determined to tramp on a few miles in thehope of lifting Tim Sullivan's ranch-house on the prominent hilltopwhere, he had been told, it stood. 

Two or three miles beyond the hay-field Mackenzie came suddenly upon asheep-camp. The wagon stood on a green hillside, a pleasant valleybelow it where the grass was abundant and sweet. The camp evidentlyhad been stationed in that place but a little while, for a large bandof sheep grazed just below it, no bedding-ground being worn bare inthe unusual verdure. Altogether, it was the greenest and mostpromising place Mackenzie had met in his journey, gladdening at onceto the imagination and the eye. 

The shepherd sat on the hillside, his dogs beside him, a little smokeascending 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 presencebristling backs. The shepherd rose to inquire into the alarm, springing up with amazing agility, such sudden and wild concern in hismanner as provoked the traveler's smile. 

Mackenzie saw that he was a boy of fifteen or thereabout, dressed inoveralls much too large for him, the bottoms turned up almost to hisknees. Hot as the morning was beginning, the lad had on a duck coatwith sheepskin collar, but in the excitement of beholding a visitorapproaching 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 fewrods distant, throwing back a half-frightened look as he disappearedaround its side. 

This was a very commodious wagon, familiar to Mackenzie from havingseen many like it drawn up for repairs at the blacksmith shops inJasper. Its heavy canvas top was stretched tightly over bows, made towithstand wind and rough weather, a stovepipe projecting through it, fended about with a broad tin, and a canvas door, with a little windowin it, a commodious step letting down to the ground. Its tongue wascut 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 stillbristling, countenances unpromising. The boy had disappeared into thewagon; Mackenzie wondered if he had gone to fetch his gun. 

But no. Instead of a gun, came a girl, neither timidity nor fear inher bearing, and close behind her came the boy, hat still in his hand, his long, straight hair down about his ears. Mackenzie had stopped ahundred yards or so distant, not confident of a friendly receptionfrom the dogs. The girl waved her hand in invitation for him to comeon, and stood waiting at the wagon end. 

She was as neatly dressed as the lad beside her was uncouth in hisman-size overalls, her short corduroy skirt belted about with a broadleather clasped with a gleaming silver buckle, the tops of her talllaced boots lost beneath its hem. Her gray flannel waist was laced atthe bosom like a cowboy's shirt, adorned at the collar with a flamingscarlet necktie done in a bow as broad as a band. Her brown sombrerowas tilted, perhaps unintentionally, a little to one side of herrather pert and independently carried head. 

At a word from her the dogs left the way unopposed, and as greetingspassed between the sheepgirl and the stranger the wise creatures stoodbeside her, eyeing the visitor over with suspicious mien. Mackenzietold his name and his business, making inquiry in the same breath forTim Sullivan's ranch. 

"Do you know Mr. Sullivan?" she asked. And as she lifted her eyesMackenzie 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 wasrefreshingly pure in its outline, strong and haughty and brown, andsubtly 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 alot about him down at Jasper--I was the schoolteacher there. "

"Oh, you're up here on your vacation?" said she, a light of quickinterest in her eyes, an unmistakable friendliness in her voice. Itwas as if he had presented a letter from somebody well and favorablyknown. 

"No, I've come up here to see about learning the sheep business. "

"Sheep business?" said she, looking at him with surprised eyes. "Sheepbusiness?" this time with a shading of disgust. "Well, if I had senseenough to teach school I'd never want to see another sheep!"

Mackenzie smiled at her impetuous outburst in which she revealed in aword the discontent of her heart. 

"Of course you know Mr. Sullivan?"

"He's my father, " she returned. "This is my brother Charley; there areeight 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 fromhere, " 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 amatter-of-fact way, no flippancy in her manner. "Charley, stir up thefire, will you? I can't offer you much, Mr. Mackenzie, but you'rewelcome 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, turningfrom him presently to go and lie beside Charley, their faces towardthe flock, alert ears lifted, white breasts gleaming in the sun likethe 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, therewas coffee enough in the pot. She handed the smoke-blackened vesselout to Mackenzie as she spoke, telling him to go and put it on thefire. 

Joan turned the beans into the pan after cooking the bacon, and sentCharley to the wagon for a loaf of bread. 

"We don't have to bake bread in this camp, that's one blessing, " shesaid. "Mother keeps us supplied. Some of these sheepherders nevertaste anything but their cold-water biscuits for years at a time. "

"It must get kind of tiresome, " Mackenzie reflected, thinking of hisown 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 hissister, who flushed, turned her eyes a moment on her visitor, and thenseemed to rebuke the lad for passing confidences in such impolite way. Mackenzie guessed that his discolored neck and bruised face had beenthe subject of the boy's conjectures, but he did not feel pride enoughin his late encounter to speak of it even in explanation. Charleyopened the way to it at last when Joan took the breakfast things backto the wagon. 

"Have you been in a fight?" the boy inquired. 

"Not much of a one, " Mackenzie told him, rather wishing that theparticulars might be reserved. 

"Your neck's black like somebody'd been chokin' you, and your face isbunged up some, too. Who done it?"

"Do you know Swan Carlson?" Mackenzie inquired, turning slowly to theboy. 

"Swan Carlson?" Charley's face grew pale at the name; his eyes startedin round amazement. "You couldn't never 'a' got away from Swan; hechoked two fellers to death, one in each hand. No man in this countrycould whip one side of Swan. "

"Well, I got away from him, anyhow, " said Mackenzie, in a manner thateven 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 meetJoan as she came from the wagon. 

"Mr. Mackenzie had a fight with Swan Carlson--that's what's the matterwith his neck!" he said. There was unbounded admiration in the boy'svoice, and exultation as if the distinction were his own. Here beforehis eyes was a man who had come to grips with Swan Carlson, and hadescaped from his strangling hands to eat his breakfast with as muchunconcern as if he had no more than been kicked by a mule. 

Joan came on a little quicker, excitement reflected in her livelyeyes. Mackenzie was filling his pipe, which had gone through thefight in his pocket in miraculous safety--for which he was dulygrateful--ashamed of his bruises, now that the talk of them hadbrought them to Joan's notice again. 

"I hope you killed him, " she said, coming near, looking down onMackenzie with full commendation; "he keeps his crazy wife chained uplike a dog!"

"I don't think he's dead, but I'd like to know for sure, " Mackenziereturned, his eyes bent thoughtfully on the ground. 

"Nobody will ever say a word to you if you did kill him, " Joanassured. "They'd all know he started it--he fusses with everybody. "

She sat on the ground near him, Charley posting himself a little infront, where he could admire and wonder over the might of a man whocould break Swan Carlson's hold upon his throat and leave his housealive. Before them the long valley widened as it reached away, thesheep a dusty brown splotch in it, spread at their grazing, the soundof the lambs' wailing rising clear in the pastoral silence. 

"I stopped at Carlson's house after dark last night, " Mackenzieexplained, seeing that such explanation must be made, "and turned hiswife loose. Carlson resented it when he came home. He said I'd have tofight him. But you're wrong when you believe what Carlson says aboutthat woman; she isn't crazy, and never was. "

That seemed to be all the story, from the way he hastened it, andturned away from the vital point of interest. Joan touched his arm ashe sat smoking, his speculative gaze on the sheep, his brows drawn asif in troubled thought. 

"What did you do when he said you had to fight him?" she inquired, herbreath 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 toknow. 

"Charley!" said Joan. 

"Carlson locked the door before I could get out. " Mackenzie nodded tothe boy, very gravely, as one man to another. Charley laughed. 

"You didn't tear up no boards off the floor tryin' to git away!" saidhe. 

Joan smiled; that seemed to express her opinion of it, also. Sheadmired the schoolmaster's modest reluctance when he gave them a bareoutline 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 manthat had come into the sheeplands in his day. Sheep people are notfighting folks. They never have been since the world's beginning; theynever will be to the world's end. There is something in the peacefulbusiness of attending sheep, some appeal in their meekness andpassivity, that seems to tincture and curb the savage spirit thatdwells in the breast of man. Swan Carlson was one of the notoriousexceptions in that country. Even the cattlemen were afraid of him. 

Joan advised against Mackenzie's expressed intention of returning toCarlson's house to find out how badly he was hurt. It would be ablessing to the country, she said, if it should turn out that Carlsonwas killed. But Mackenzie had an uneasy feeling that it would be ablessing he could not share. He was troubled over the thing, now thatthe excitement of the fight had cooled out of him, thinking of theblow he had given Carlson with that heavy piece of oak. 

Perhaps the fellow was not dead, but hurt so badly that he would diewithout surgical aid. It was the part of duty and humanity to go backand see. He resolved to do this, keeping the resolution to himself. 

Joan told him much of the sheep business, and much about the art ofrunning a big band over that sparse range, in which this green valleylay like an oasis, a gladdening sight seldom to be met with amongthose sulky hills. She said she hoped her father would find a placefor him, for the summer, at least. 

"But I wouldn't like to see you shut yourself up in this country likethe rest of us are, " she said, gazing off over the hills with wistfuleyes. "A man that knows enough to teach school oughtn't fool away histime on sheep. "

She was working toward her own emancipation, she told him, runningthat band of two thousand sheep on shares for her father, just thesame as an ordinary herdsman. In three years she hoped her increase, and share of the clip, would be worth ten thousand dollars, and thenshe would sell out and go away. 

"What would you want to leave a good business like this for?" heasked, rather astonished at her cool calculation upon what shebelieved to be freedom. "There's nothing out in what people call theworld that you could turn your hand to that would make you a third ofthe 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 overher wholesome young face. 

"I'm nearly nineteen; I don't know as much as a girl of twelve, " shesaid. 

"I've never met any of those precocious twelve-year-olds, " he toldher, shaking his head gravely. "You know a great deal more than you'reconscious of, I think, Miss Sullivan. We don't get the best of it outof books. "

"I'm a prisoner here, " she said, stretching her arms as if shedisplayed her bonds, "as much of a prisoner in my way as SwanCarlson's wife was in hers. You cut her chain; nobody ever has come tocut mine. "

"Your knight will come riding over the hill some evening. One comesinto every woman's life, sooner or later, I think. "

"Mostly in imagination, " said Joan. And her way of saying it, so wiseand 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 comingof a champion to set her free. He went off to send the dogs after anadventurous bunch of sheep that was straying from the main flock. Joansighed as she looked after him, putting a strand of hair away behindher ear. Presently she brightened, turning to Mackenzie withquickening eyes. 

"I'll make a bargain with you, Mr. Mackenzie, if you're in earnestabout 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 dealwith him for you to get a band of sheep to run on shares if you'llagree to teach me enough to get into college--if I've got brainsenough to learn. "

"The doubt would be on the side of the teacher, not the pupil, MissSullivan. 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 ofa band of sheep under conditions that might look as if I neededsomebody to plug for me. Your father might think of me as anincompetent and good-for-nothing person. "

"You're afraid I haven't got it in me to learn--you don't want towaste time on me!" Joan spoke with a sad bitterness, as one who sawanother illusion fading before her eyes. 

"Not that, " he hastened to assure her, putting out his hand as if toadd the comfort of his touch to the salve of his words. "I'm onlyafraid your father wouldn't have anything to do with me if you were toapproach him with any such proposal. From what I've heard of him he'sa 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 onany kind of an arrangement or condition, Miss Sullivan. But I pass youmy word that you'll be welcome to anything and all I'm able to teachyou 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 faceagain. 

"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, withgreat 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 butsheepmen, and that's all you can make out of us. "

Tim Sullivan spoke without humor when he made this correction in thename of his calling, sitting with his back to a haycock, eating hisdinner in the sun. Mackenzie accepted the correction with a nod ofunderstanding, sparing his words. 

"So you want to be a flockmaster?" said Tim. "Well, there's worsecallin's a man, especially a young man, could take up. What put it inyour head to tramp off up here to see me? Couldn't some of themsheepmen 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 therange, for another. I want to learn under a master, if I learn atall. "

"Right, " Tim nodded, "right and sound. Do you think you've got thestuff in you to make a sheepman out of?"

"It will have to be a pretty hard school if I can't stick itthrough. "

"Summers are all right, " said Tim, reflectively, nodding away at thedistant hills, "and falls are all right, but you take it winter andearly spring, and it tries the mettle in a man. Blizzards andstarvation, and losses through pile-ups and stampedes, wolves and whatnot, 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 gotinto it I'll go it alone. "

"That's right; it's safer to let the other man take the risk. It ain'tfair to us sheepmen, but we have to do it to get men. Well, when wehit on a good man, it pays better than hirin' poor ones at fiftydollars a month and found. I've had old snoozers workin' for me thatthe coyotes eat the boots off of while they was asleep. You look kindof slim and light to tackle a job on the range. "

Mackenzie made no defense of his weight, advancing no further argumentin behalf of his petition for a job. Sullivan measured him over withhis appraising eyes, saying nothing about the bruises he bore, although Mackenzie knew he was burning with curiosity to go into thematter of how and when he received them. 

Sullivan was a man of calm benignity of face, a placid certainty ofhis 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 usethat he made of it for his own comfort or the advancement of thoseunder his hand. Even so, he was of a type superior to the general runof flockmasters such as Mackenzie had met. 

"I'll give you a job helpin' me on this hay for a few days, and kindof try you out, " Tim agreed at last. "I don't want to discourage youat the start, but I don't believe you got the mettle in you to make aflockmaster, if you want to call it that, out of. "

"All right; I'll help you on the hay. Before I start in though, I'dlike to borrow a saddle-horse from you to take a ride down the creekto 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 hisreason for desiring to visit him. Tim's wonder was too large tocontain at hearing this news. He got up, his eyes staring in plainincredulity, his mouth open a bit between surprise and censure, itseemed. But he said nothing for a little while; only stood and lookedMackenzie over again, with more careful scrutiny than before. 

"I'll go down with you, " he announced, turning abruptly away to getthe horses. 

It was evident to Mackenzie that Sullivan was bewildered between doubtand suspicion as they rode toward Carlson's ranch, which the sheepmansaid was about seven miles away. But he betrayed nothing of histhoughts in words, riding in silence mainly, looking at the groundlike a man who had troubles on his mind. 

The silence of abandonment was over Carlson's house as they rode up. Afew chickens retreated from the yard to the cover of the barn in thehaste of panic, their going being the only sound of life about theplace. The door through which Mackenzie had left was shut; heapproached it without hesitation--Tim Sullivan lingering back as if indoubt of their reception--and knocked. No answer. Mackenzie tried thedoor, finding it unlocked; pushed it open, entered. 

Sullivan stood outside, one mighty hand on the jamb, his body to oneside under protection of the house, his head put cautiously andcuriously round to see, leaving a fairway for Swan Carlson should herise from a dark corner, shake himself like an old grizzly, andcharge. 

"Is he there?" Tim asked, his voice a strained whisper. 

Mackenzie did not reply. He stood in the middle of the room where hiscombat with Swan had taken place, among the debris of broken dishes, wrecked table, fallen stovepipe and tinware, looking about him withgrim interest. There was nobody in the other room, but the blood fromSwan's hurt trailed across the floor as if he had been helped to thebed. Tim took his courage in both hands and came just inside thedoor. 

"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 fromhere, 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 womanof his up with. "

"We'd better go back and get at that hay, " Mackenzie said. "There'snothing I can do for Carlson. "

"There's the table leg you hit him with!" Tim picked it up, pluckingoff the red hairs which clung to it, looking at Mackenzie withstartled 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 rodebeside Mackenzie in silence, turning a furtive eye upon him across hislong nose now and then. At last it burst from him:

"You done it!" he said, with the astonished pleasure of a man assuredagainst 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 rangeif he never comes back. "

"Why didn't some of you handle him long ago? A man of your build oughtto be able to put a dent in Carlson. "

"I'll fight any man that stands on two feet, " said Tim, with suchsincerity that it could not have been taken for a boast, "you can askabout me far and near, but I draw the line at the devil. I've stood upwith four men against me, with meat cleavers and butcher knives intheir hands, when I used to work as a sheep butcher back in thepackin' house in Chicago, and I've come through with my life. But themwas friends of mine, " he sighed; "a man knew how they lived. SwanCarlson's got a wolf's blood in his veins. He ain't a human man. "

"And this man is worth three hundred thousand dollars!" thoughtMackenzie. And he knew, also, that the greatest treasure that theflockmaster could count was one not so greatly appreciated as athousand 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 Icould put you under till the dogs got used to you and you learnt theirways and found out something among the thousand things a man's got toknow if he intends to make a success of runnin' sheep. Old Dad Frazercould put you onto the tricks of the trade quicker than any man Iknow. Maybe you _have_ got the makin' of a sheepman in you. I'll haveto think it over. "

Tim took the four days they were at the hay to think about it. At theend of that time, with the hay in stack and the mowing-machine loadedinto the wagon for the rough journey to the ranch, Tim unburdened hismind. 

"I've decided to try you out, John, " he announced, but shaking hishead as he spoke, as if he doubted the wisdom of the venture. "I'llleave you here with Dad Frazer--he's over on Horsethief, about sixmiles across from Joan's range--and let him break you in. Youunderstand, you don't go in on shares till you're able to handle atleast two thousand head. "

"I agree on that. "

"And then there's another little point. " Tim shifted his feet, jerkedup his trousers, rubbed his chin in a truly Irish way. "That girl ofmine, Joan, she's got it in her head she wants to be a lady, and go tocollege and put on agonies. No use in it, as I tell her. No girlthat's got money needs any of the education stuff. I got on withoutit, and I made my money without it. Joan she wants you to give hersome lessons. She made me promise I wouldn't take you on unless you'dagree 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 inhis mind. He doubted whether more learning would bring to Joan thecontentment which she lacked in her present state. It might only openthe door to a greater longing, or it might disillusion her when herfeet had left these wild, free hills, and set a pang in her heart likea flame for the things which knowledge closes the door against thereturn 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 hershe ain't got the mind for books and Latin and mathematics. All themathematics she needs is enough to count her sheep and figure herclip. 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 themall up if she likes. But tell her to stick to sheep, whatever shedoes. 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'ssomething 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 youdon't need to tell her that. "

"I don't believe she'll take it, but it's the soundest advice I couldgive her, " Mackenzie said. 

"Work up to it gradual, lad; it can't be done in a day. Make thelessons hard, pile the Latin on heavy. Lord, I remember it, back inthe old country, old Father MacGuire layin' it on the lads under histhumb. Devil a word of it sticks to me now, not even the word forsheep. I tried to remember some of it when they sent me up to thelegislature in Cheyenne; I wanted to knock 'em over. But it had allleaked 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 withCharley and Joan. Tomorrow I'll come back and take you out to DadFrazer's camp, and you can begin your schoolin' for the makin' of amaster. 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 aswith the weight of the day. "People shoot themselves when they get itbad--green sheepherders and farmers that come in here to try to plowup the range. "

"Crazy guys, " said Charley, contemptuously, chin in his hands where hestretched full length on his belly beside the embers of the supperfire. 

"Homesick, " said Mackenzie, understandingly. "I've heard it's one ofthe worst of all diseases. It defeats armies sometimes, so you can'tblame 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 defiancein her tone, as if in defense of a question often disputed betweenherself and Charley. 

"You think you do, " said Charley, "but you'd hit the high placescomin' 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 sheepfigures up enough you'll see me hittin' the breeze for Chicago. I wantto see the picture galleries and libraries. "

"I'd like to go through the mail-order house we get our things from upthere, " Charley said. "The catalogue says it covers seventeen acres!"

Mackenzie was camping with them for the night on his way to DadFrazer's range, according to Tim Sullivan's plan. Long since they hadfinished supper; the sheep were quiet below them on the hillside. Thesilence of the sheeplands, almost oppressive in its weight, lay aroundthem so complete and unbroken that Mackenzie fancied he could hear thestars snap as they sparkled. He smiled to himself at the fancy, faceturned up to the deep serenity of the heavens. Charley blew theembers, stirring them with a brush of sage. 

"The lonesomeness, " said Mackenzie, with a curious dwelling on theword; "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 alittle blaze jumped up into the startled dark. The sudden lightrevealed Joan's face where she sat across from Mackenzie, and it wasso 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 thenight after her dreams of freedom beyond the land she knew, and so sheheld them a moment, undazzled by the light of the leaping blaze. Theygleamed like glad waters in a morning sun, and the schoolmaster'sheart was quickened by them, and the pain for her longing soothed outof it. The well of her youth was revealed before him, the fountain ofher soul. 

"I'm goin' to roll in, " Charley announced, his branch consumed in theeager breath of the little blaze. "Don't slam your shoes down like youwas drivin' nails when you come in, Joan. "

"It wouldn't bother you much, " Joan told him, calmly indifferent tohis great desire for unbroken repose. 

Charley rolled on his back, where he lay a little while in luxuriousinaction, sleep coming over him heavily. Joan shook him, sending himstumbling off to the wagon and his bunk. 

"You could drive a wagon over him and never wake him once he hits thehay, " she said. 

"What kind of a man is Dad Frazer?" Mackenzie asked, his mind runningon his business adventure that was to begin on the morrow. 

"Oh, he's a regular old flat-foot, " said Joan. "He'll talk your legoff before you've been around him a week, blowin' about what he usedto 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 withall 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 Frazertalking 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 towith 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 longtime, thinking of the sparkle of her yearning eyes, smiling in hisgrim way to himself when there was no chance of being seen as he feltagain the flash of them strike deep into his heart. Wise eyes, eyeswhich held a store of wholesome knowledge gleaned from the years inthose silent places where her soul had grown without a shadow tosmirch 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 Frazergrazes his sheep?"

"Close to the range Swan Carlson and the Hall boys use, and you wantto keep away from there. "

"Of course; I wouldn't want to trespass on anybody's territory. Arethey 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--Idon'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 anybodylets 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 youwhite, anyway. "

Again a silence stood between them, Mackenzie considering many things, not the least of them being this remarkable girl's life among thesheep and the rough characters of the range, no wonder in him over herimpatience to be away from it. It seemed to him that Tim Sullivanmight well spare her the money for schooling, as well as fend heragainst the dangers and hardships of the range by keeping her at homethese 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 youever have any dances or anything--camp meetings or picnics?"

"They have dances over at Four Corners sometimes--Hector Hall wantedme 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 lookedfor 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 havestraightened things out. You know, when you stay here on the range, Mr. Mackenzie, you're on a level with everybody else, no matter whatyou think of yourself. You can't get out of the place they make foryou in their estimation of you. Hector Hall never will believe I'mtoo good to go to a dance with him. He'll be sore about it all hislife. "

"A man naturally would have regrets, Miss Sullivan. Maybe that's asfar as it goes with Hector Hall, maybe he's only sore at heart for thehonor denied. "

"That don't sound like real talk, " said Joan. 

Mackenzie grinned at the rebuke, and the candor and frankness in whichit was administered, thinking that Joan would have a frigid time of itout in the world if she applied such outspoken rules to its flatteriesand mild humbugs. 

"Let's be natural then, " he suggested, considering as he spoke thatcandor was Joan's best defense in her position on the range. Here shesat out under the stars with him, miles from the nearest habitation, miles from her father's house, her small protector asleep in thewagon, and thought no more of it than a chaperoned daughter of thecity in an illuminated drawing-room. A girl had to put men in theirplaces and keep them there under such circumstances, and nobody knewbetter how to do it than Joan. 

"I'll try your patience and good humor when you start out to teachme, " 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 alot, I know, but there won't be anybody to laugh at me--but you. " Shepaused as if considering the figure she would make at the tasks sheawaited with such impatience, then added under her breath, almost ina whisper, as if it was not meant for him to hear: "But you'll neverlaugh at me for being hungry to learn. "

Mackenzie attempted neither comment nor reply to this, feeling that itwas Joan's heart speaking to herself alone. He looked away over thesleeping sheeplands, vast as the sea, and as mysterious under thestarlight, thinking that it would require more than hard lessons andunusual tasks to discourage this girl. She stood at the fountain-edge, leaning with dry lips to drink, her wistful eyes strong to probe themysteries which lay locked in books yet strange to her, but wiser inher years than many a man who had skimmed a college course. There wasa vast difference between knowledge and learning, indeed; it never hadbeen so apparent to him as in the presence of that outspoken girl ofthe sheep range that summer night. 

What would the world do with Joan Sullivan if she ever broke herfetters 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 awakeningfrom long-wrapping dreams. If he could teach her to be content in thewide freedom of that place he would accomplish the greatest servicethat he could bring her in the days of her untroubled youth. Discourage her, said Tim Sullivan. Mackenzie felt that this was nothis job. 

"Maybe Charley's right about it, " she said, her voice low, and softwith that inherited gentleness which must have come from TimSullivan's mother, Mackenzie thought. "He's a wise kid, maybe I wouldwant to come back faster than I went away. But I get so tired of itsometimes I walk up and down out here by the wagon half the night, andwear myself out making plans that I may never be able to putthrough. "

"It's just as well, " he told her, nodding again in his solemn, weightyfashion; "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 thatall your dreams brought you?"

"But I've seen more here than I ever projected in my schemes, MissJoan. I've seen the serenity of the stars in this vastness; I've feltthe wind of freedom on my face. " And to himself: "And I have seen thefirelight leap in a maiden's eyes, and I have looked deep into theinspiring fountain of her soul. " But there was not the boldness inhim, nor the desire to risk her rebuke again, to bring it to hislips. 

"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 asheepman, and of course you will if you stick to the range longenough, you'll never be able to leave again. Sheep tie a person downlike a houseful of children. "

"Maybe I'd never want to go. I've had my turn at it out there; I'vebeen snubbed and discounted, all but despised, because I had a littlelearning and no money to go with it. I can hide my little learninghere, and nobody seems to care about the money. Yes, I think I'll stayon the range. "

Joan turned her face away, and he knew the yearning was in her eyes asthey strained into the starlit horizon after the things she had neverknown. 

"I don't see what could ever happen that would make me want to stayhere, " she said at last. She got up with the sudden nimbleness of adeer, so quickly that Mackenzie though she must be either startled oroffended, but saw in a moment it was only her natural way of moving inthe 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. Goodnight. "

Mackenzie sat again by the ashes of the little fire after giving hergood night. He felt that he had suffered in her estimation because ofhis lowly ambition to follow her father, and the hundred other obscureheroes of the sheep country, and become a flockmaster, sequestered andsafe among the sage-gray hills. 

Joan expected more of a man who was able to teach school; expectedlofty aims, far-reaching ambitions. But that was because Joan did notknow the world that lifted the lure of its flare beyond the rim of herhorizon. She must taste it to understand, and come back with a bruisedheart to the shelter of her native hills. 

And this lonesomeness of which she had been telling him, this dreadsickness that fell upon a man in those solitudes, and drained away hiscourage and hope--must he experience it, like a disease of adolescencefrom which few escape? He did not believe it. Joan had said she wasimmune to it, having been born in its atmosphere, knowing nothing butsolitude and silence, in which there was no strange nor fearfulthing. 

But she fretted under a discontent that made her miserable, eventhough it did not strain her reason like the lonesomeness. Somethingwas wanting to fill her life. He cast about him, wondering what itcould be, wishing that he might supply it and take away the shadow outof her eyes. 

It was his last thought as he fell asleep in a little swale below thewagon where the grass was tall and soft--that he might find what waslacking to make Joan content with the peace and plenty of thesheeplands, 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 theground 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, asif they together sought the door that opened out of that gray landinto 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 inthe 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. Hiseyes came back from their distant groping, meeting hers with gentleboldness. So for a little while he looked silently into her appealingeyes, then turned away. 

"Maybe, Joan, because it is the easiest lesson to learn and thehardest 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 leftout of it, any more than it can be left out of life. Well, it doesn'tneed 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 wasa boy who made us conjugate _to like_ instead of the more intimate andtender word. Poor old soul! I hope it saved her feelings and eased herregrets. "

"Maybe she'd had a romance, " said Joan. 

"I hope so; there's at least one romance coming to every woman in thisworld. If she misses it she's being cheated. "

Mackenzie took up the Latin grammar, marking off her next lesson, andpiling it on with unsparing hand, too. Yet not in accord with TimSullivan's advice; solely because his pupil was one of extraordinarycapacity. There was no such thing as discouraging Joan; she absorbedlearning and retained it, as the sandstone absorbs oil under thepressure of the earth, holding it without wasting a drop until the dayit gladdens man in his exploration. 

So with Joan. She was storing learning in the undefiled reservoir ofher mind, to be found like unexpected jewels by some hand in aftertime. As she followed the sheep she carried her books; at night, longafter Charley had gone to sleep, she sat with them by the lanternlight in the sheep-wagon. Unspoiled by the diversions and distractionswhich divide the mind of the city student, she acquired and held amonth's tasks in a week. The thirsty traveler in the desert places hadcome to the oasis of her dreams. 

Daily Joan rode to the sheep-camp where Mackenzie was learning thebusiness of running sheep under Dad Frazer. There were no holidays inthe term Joan had set for herself, no unbending, no relaxation fromher books. Perhaps she did not expect her teacher to remain there inthe sheeplands, shut away from the life that he had breathed so longand put aside for what seemed to her an unaccountable whim. 

"You'll be reading Caesar by winter, " Mackenzie told her as sheprepared to ride back to her camp. "You'll have to take it slowerthen; we can't have lessons every day. "

"Why not?" She was standing beside her horse, hat in hand, her richhair lifting in the wind from her wise, placid brow. Her books she hadstrapped to the saddle-horn; there was a yellow slicker at thecantle. 

"You'll be at home, I'll be out here with the sheep. I expect aboutonce a week will be as often as we can make it then. "

"I'll be out here on the range, " she said, shaking her determinedhead, "a sheepman's got to stick with his flock through all kinds ofweather. If I run home for the winter I'll have to hire a herder, andthat 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 thesheepmen in this country--yes, most of them--would be better men ifthey were poor. Wealth is nothing to them but a dim consciousness of anew power. It makes them arrogant and unbearable. Did you ever seeMatt Hall?"

"I still have that pleasure in reserve. But I think you'll find it'srefinement, 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, awistful note of loneliness in her low, soft voice. "I'm going to rideaway some day and push it aside, and see what it's been keeping fromme all the years of my longing. Then, maybe, when I'm satisfied I'llcome back and make money. I've got sense enough to see it's here to bemade if a person's got the sheep to start with and the range to runthem 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 mostto know. Well, there are bitter waters and sweet waters, Joan; we'vegot to drink them both. "

"It's the same way here, " she said, "only we've got sense enough toknow 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 curtainof 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'dnever give me the money, but he'll buy me out when I've got enough tostake me. "

"Your father was over this morning. "

"Yes, I know. "

"He thinks _my_ education's advanced far enough to trust me with aband of sheep. I'm going to have charge of the flock I've been runninghere with Dad Frazer. "

"I heard about it. "

"And you don't congratulate me on becoming a paid sheepherder, myfirst step on the way to flockmaster!"

"I don't know that you're to be congratulated, " she returned, facinghim seriously. "All there is to success here is brute strength andendurance against storms and winter weather--it don't take any brains. Out there where you've been and I'm going, there must be somethingbigger and better for a man, it seems to me. But maybe men get tiredof 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 inspells sometimes. If you stay here and teach me, maybe I'll get overit 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 wasthe 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, " hecorrected her, in gentle spirit. 

"I oughtn't talk that way to you, " she said, turning to himcontritely, her earnest eyes lifted to his, "it's none of my businesswhat 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 mischiefat the corners of her mouth. Mackenzie laughed, but strained andunnaturally, his own tough face burning with a hot tide of mountingblood. 

"Somebody else would have taught you--you'd have conjugated it inanother language, maybe, " he said. 

"Yes, you say it's the easiest lesson to learn, " she nodded, soberlynow. "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 mindon a doubted point. 

"I expect I'll be getting a taste of the lonesomeness here of nightspretty soon, " Mackenzie said, feeling himself in an awkward, yet notunpleasant situation with this frank girl's rather impertinentquestion still burning in his heart. "Dad's going to leave me to takecharge 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 youdon't slow down a little, " he returned. "At the pace you've set you'llhave to import a professor to take you along, unless one strays infrom somewhere. "

"I don't take up with strays, " said Joan, rather loftily. 

"I think Dad's getting restless, " Mackenzie said, hastening to coverhis mistake. 

"He goes away every so often, " Joan explained, "to see his Mexicanwife 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, morethan likely, but he'll come drifting back with the shearers in thespring like he always does. It seems to me like everybody comes backto the sheep country that's ever lived in it a while. I wonder if I'dwant to come back, too?"

It was a speculation upon which Mackenzie did not feel called to makecomment. 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, fromher manner of refusing to lift her head. 

Mackenzie felt a great uplifting in his heart, as a song cheers itwhen it comes gladly at the close of a day of perplexity and doubt andtoil. He reached out his hand as if to touch her and tell her how thisdawning of his hope made him glad, but withdrew it, dropping it at hisside as she looked up, a lively color in her cheeks. 

"As long as you'll stay and teach me, there isn't any particular usefor 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 lownotes. 

Joan drew her breath again with that long inspiration which was like asatisfied sigh. 

"Well, I must go, " she said. 

But she did not move, and Mackenzie, drawing nearer, put out his handin 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, andthe heartache that too often go with the knowledge of the world. You'dbe better for it if you never knew, living here undefiled like aspring that comes out of the rocks into the sun. "

"Well, I must go, " said Joan, sighing with repletion again, but takingno 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 inglory around them. Dad Frazer was bringing his murmuring flock home tothe bedding-ground on the hillside below the wagon; the wind was lowas a lover's breath, lifting Joan's russet hair from her pure, placidbrow. 

And she must go at last, with a word of parting from the saddle, andher hand held out to him in a new tenderness as if going home were athing to be remembered. And as Mackenzie took it there rose in hismemory 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 stoodfor a little moment sharply against the fiery sky to wave him afarewell. 

"So easily learned, Joan; so hard to forget, " said Mackenzie, speakingas if he sent his voice after her, a whisper on the wind, although shewas half a mile away. A moment more, and the hill stood empty betweenthem. Mackenzie turned to prepare supper for the coming of Dad Frazer, who would complain against books and the nonsense contained in them ifthe 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 itssleeping place, which tomorrow night very likely would be on somehillside no softer, many miles away. Only a few days together the campremained in one place, no longer than it took the sheep to crop theherbage within easy reach. Then came the camp-mover and hauled thewagon to fresh pastures in that illimitable, gray-green land. 

Dad Frazer was a man of sixty or sixty-five, who had been an armyteamster in the days of frontier posts. He was slender and sinewy, with beautiful, glimmering, silvery hair which he wore in long curlsand kept as carefully combed as any dandy that ever pranced at thecourt of a king. It was his one vanity, his dusty, greasy raimentbeing 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 oncein 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 theback of his head drawn tight across his flowing hair. The brim of thishat turned up in the back as if he had slept in it many years, whichwas indeed the case, and down in the front so low over his brows thatit gave him a sullen and clouded cast, which the redundancy of hisspirits and words at once denied. 

For Dad Frazer was a loquacious sheepherder, an exception among themorose and silent men who follow that isolated calling upon the lonelyrange. He talked to the dogs when there was nobody by, to the sheep ashe scattered them for an even chance between weak and strong over thegrazing lands, and to himself when no other object presented. He sworewith force and piquancy, and original embellishments for old-timeoaths which was like a sharp sauce to an unsavory dish. 

Frazer was peculiar in another way. He liked a soft bed to pound theground on after his long days after the sheep, and to that end kept aroll of sheepskins under the wagon. More than that, he always washedbefore 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 oftalk from the time he came within hearing to the moment the watersmothered his voice over the basin, Mackenzie saw him turn an eye inhis direction every little while between the soaping and the washingof his bearded face. The old fellow seemed bursting with restraint ofsomething that he had not told or asked about. Mackenzie could readhim 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 supperspread on a board, a box at each end, for that was a sheep-camp _deluxe_. He stood a little while looking about in the gloom, his headtipped as if he listened, presently taking his place, unaccountablysilent, 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'texactly know how a man that would lose a dog looks, but I don'tbelieve you do. "

"Swan Carlson's back on the range!" said Dad, delivering it before hewas ready, perhaps, and before he had fully prepared the way, butunable 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 womanof his'n she's with him. Swan run one of his herders off the firstrattle out of the box, said he'd been stealin' sheep while he wasgone. 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 tohis 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 womanaround like a sack of sawdust the way he always did. I reckon he getsmore 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 intheir fusses and disturbances. I know a colonel in the army that's gotseventeen stitches in his bay winder right now from buttin' in betweena 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 abouthim and his brother, Hector, ever since I came up here. "

"Them Hall boys used to be cattlemen up on the Sweetwater, but theywas run out of there on account of suspicion of rustlin', I hear. Theycome 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 SwanCarlson, and I reckon Swan only respects 'em because they're the onlymen 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 acouple of 'em on him, and Matt mostly has one in sight. You can gambleon it he's got an automatic in his pocket when he don't strap it onhim in the open. "

"I don't see what use a man's got for a gun up here among sheep andsheepmen. They must be expecting somebody to call on them from the oldneighborhood. "

"Yes, I figger that's about the size of it. I don't know what Matt wasdoin' 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 hemust 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. Inever saw a man that had a chin like Matt Hall. They say a big chin'sthe sign of strength, and if that works out Matt must have a mind likea brigadier general. His face is all chin; chin's an affliction onMatt Hall; it's a disease. Wait till you see him; that's all I cansay. "

"I'll know him when I do. "

"Hector ain't so bad, but he's got a look in his eyes like a manthat'd grab you by the nose and cut your throat, and grin while he wasdoin' it. "

Mackenzie made no comment on these new and picturesque charactersintroduced by Dad into the drama that was forming for enactment inthat 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 withcorn-husk wrapper, a peppery tobacco filling that smarted the eyeswhen it burned, of which he must have carried thousands when he leftthe 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 manto work a year at forty dollars a month and found before he goes in asa 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 withTim to go to work here with you and learn the rudiments of handling aband of sheep. He sprung that on me today, when I thought I was aboutto begin my career as a capitalist. Instead of that, I've got a yearahead 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 alot 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'this style. Never did take anybody in on shares but Joan, that I knowof. It looks to me like Tim's workin' you for all he can git out ofyou. You'll herd for Tim a year at forty dollars, and teach Joan athousand dollars' worth while you're doin' it. You're a mightyobligin' feller, it looks like to me. "

Mackenzie sat thinking it over. He rolled it in his mind quite awhile, considering its most unlikely side, considering it as aquestion of comparative values, trying to convince himself that, ifnothing more came of it than a year's employment, he would be evenbetter off than teaching school. If Tim was indeed planning to profitdoubly by him during that year, Joan could have no knowledge of hisscheme, he was sure. 

On Joan's account he would remain, he told himself, at last, feelingeasier and less simple for the decision. Joan needed him, she countedon him. Going would be a sad disappointment, a bitter discouragement, to her. All on Joan's account, of course, he would remain; Joan, withher russet hair, the purity of October skies in her eyes. Why, ofcourse. 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 downto one little spot; they work out a hole in their piece of the earthlike a worm. It ain't no life. I can have more fun on forty dollarsthan Tim Sullivan can out of forty thousand. "

Dad got out his greasy duck coat with sheepskin collar, such ascattlemen and sheepmen, and all kinds of outdoor men in that countrywore, for the night was cool and damp with dew. Together they satsmoking, no more discussion between them, the dogs out of sight downthe hill near the sheep. 

Not a sound came out of the sheep, bedded on the hillside incontentment, secure in their trust of men and dogs. All day as theygrazed there rose a murmur out of them, as of discontent, complaint, or pain. Now their quavering, pathetic voices were as still as thewind. There was not a shuffle of hoof, not a sigh. 

Mackenzie thought of Joan, and the influence this solitary life, thesenight silences, had borne in shading her character with the melancholywhich was so plainly apparent in her longing to be away. She yearnedfor the sound of life, for the warmth of youth's eager fire beyond thedusty gray loneliness of this sequestered place. Still, this was whatmen and women in the crowded places thought of and longed toward asfreedom. Loose-footed here upon the hills, one might pass as free asthe wind, indeed, but there was something like the pain of prisonisolation in these night silences which bore down upon a man and madehim old. 

A sudden commotion among the sheep, terrified bleating, quickscurrying of feet, shook Mackenzie out of his reflections. The dogscharged down the hill and stood baying the disturber of the flock withsavage alarm, in which there was a note of fear. Dad stood a momentlistening, then reached into the wagon for the rifle. 

"Don't go down there!" he warned Mackenzie, who was running toward thecenter of disturbance. "That's a grizzly--don't you hear them dogs?"

Mackenzie stopped. The advance stampede of the terrified flock rushedpast him, dim in the deeper darkness near the ground. Below on thehillside where the sheep bedded he could see nothing. Dad came up withthe gun. 

The sheep were making no outcry now, and scarcely any sound ofmovement. After their first startled break they had bunched, and werestanding in their way of pathetic, paralyzing fear, waiting whatmight befall. Dad fired several quick shots toward the spot where thedogs were charging and retreating, voices thick in their throats fromtheir bristling terror of the thing that had come to lay tribute uponthe flock. 

"Don't go down there!" Dad cautioned again. "Git the lantern and lightit--maybe when he sees it he'll run. It's a grizzly. I didn't thinkthere 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. Buthis words were unheeded if not unheard. Mackenzie was running down thehillside toward the dogs. Encouraged by his coming, they dashedforward, Mackenzie halting to peer into the darkness ahead. There wasa sound of trampling, a crunching as of the rending of bones. Hefired; ran a little nearer, fired again. 

The dogs were pushing ahead now in pursuit of whatever it was thatfled. A moment, and Mackenzie heard the quick break of a gallopinghorse; fired his remaining shots after it, and called Dad to fetch thelight. 

When the horse started, the dogs returned to the flock, too wise towaste energy in a vain pursuit. At a word from Mackenzie they begancollecting the shuddering sheep. Dad Frazer came bobbing down the hillwith the lantern, breathing loud in his excitement. 

"Lord!" said he, when he saw the havoc his light revealed; "a regularold murderin' stock-killer. And I didn't think there was any grizzlyin forty miles. "

Mackenzie took the lantern, sweeping its light over the mangled bodiesof several sheep, torn limb from limb, scattered about as if they hadbeen 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 yetthat 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 likethey was rabbits!" He looked up, his weathered face white, his eyesstaring. "It takes--it takes--Lord! Do you know how much muscle ittakes to tear a sheep up that a-way?"

Mackenzie did not reply. He stood, turning a bloody heap of wool andtorn flesh with his foot, stunned by this unexampled excess of humanferocity. 

Dad recovered from his amazement presently, bent and studied thetrampled ground. 

"I ain't so sure, " he said. "Them looks like man's tracks, but agrizzly's got a foot like a nigger, and one of them big fellers makesa noise like a lopin' horse when he tears off through the bresh. Itell you, John, no human man that ever lived could take a live sheepand tear it up that a-way!"

"All right, then; it was a bear, " Mackenzie said, not disposed toargue the matter, for argument would not change what he knew to be afact, nor yet convince Dad Frazer against his reason and experience. But Mackenzie knew that they were the footprints of a man, and thatthe noise of the creature running away from camp was the noise of agalloping horse. 

CHAPTER IX

A TWO-GUN MAN

"You know, John, if a man's goin' to be a sheepman, John, he's got tokeep awake day and night. He ain't goin' to set gabbin' and let agrizzly come right up under his nose and kill his sheep. It's thedifference between the man that wouldn't do it and the man that wouldthat makes the difference between a master and a man. That's thedifference that stands against Dad Frazer. He'd never work up topartnership 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 totake charge of another band. Tim was out of humor over the loss, smallas it was out of the thousands he numbered in his flocks. He concealedhis feelings as well as he could under a friendly face, but his wordswere hard, the accusation and rebuke in them sharp. 

Mackenzie flared up at the raking-over Tim gave him, and turned hisface away to hold down a hot reply. Only after a struggle he composedhimself to speak. 

"I suppose it was because you saw the same difference in me that youwelched on your agreement to put me in a partner on the increase ofthis flock as soon as Dad taught me how to work the sheep and handlethe dogs, " he said. "That's an easy way for a man to slide out fromunder his obligations; it would apply anywhere in life as well as inthe 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 atall, lad. " Tim was as gentle as oil in his front now, afraid that hewas in the way of losing a good herder whom he had tricked intoworking at a bargain price. "I don't think you understand the lay ofit, if you've got the impression I intended to take you in at thejump-off, John. It's never done; it's never heard of. A man's got toprove himself, like David of old. There's a lot of Goliaths here onthe range he's got to meet and show he's able to handle before any manwould trust him full shares on the increase of two thousand sheep. "

"You didn't talk that way at first, " Mackenzie charged, rathersulkily. 

"I took to you when I heard how you laid Swan out in that fight youhad 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 giveyou the decision. If you'd 'a' missed him, where would you 'a' beenat?"

"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 afew sheep with a breach of contract on your side of the fence. You'veput it up to me now like you should have done in the beginning. Allright; I'll prove myself, like David. But remember there was anotherfellow by the name of Jacob that went in on a livestock deal with aslippery man, and stick to your agreement this time. "

"I don't want you to feel that I'm takin' advantage of you, John; Idon't want you to feel that way. "

"I don't just feel it; I know it. I'll pay you for the seven sheep thegrizzly killed, and take it out of his hide when I catch him. "

This offer mollified Tim, melting him down to smiles. He shook handswith Mackenzie, all the heartiness on his side, refusing the offerwith voluble protestations that he neither expected nor required it. 

"You've got the makin' of a sheepman in you, John; I always thoughtyou had. But----"

 * * * * *

"You want to be shown. All right; I'm game, even at forty dollars andfound. "

Tim beamed at this declaration, but the fires of his satisfaction hewas crafty enough to hide from even Mackenzie's penetrating eyes. Perhaps the glow was due to a thought that this schoolmaster, who owedhis notoriety in the sheeplands to a lucky blow, would fail, leavinghim far ahead on the deal. He tightened his girths and set his foot inthe stirrup, ready to mount and ride home; paused so, hand on thesaddle-horn, with a queer, half-puzzled, half-suspicious look in hissheep-wise eyes. 

"Wasn't there something else that feller Jacob was workin' for besidesthe interest in the stock?" he asked. 

"Seems to me like there was, " Mackenzie returned, carelessly. "Themain thing I remember in the transaction was the stone he set upbetween the old man and himself on the range. 'The Lord watch betweenthee and me, ' you know, it had on it. That's a mighty good motto yetfor a sheepherder to front around where his boss can read it. A man'sgot to have somebody to keep an eye on a sheepman when his back'sturned, even today. "

Tim laughed, swung into the saddle, where he sat roving his eyes overthe range, and back to the little band of sheep that seemed only ahandful of dust in the unbounded pastures where they fed. Thehillsides were green in that favored section, greener than anywhereMackenzie had been in the sheeplands, the grass already long for thelack of mouths to feed. Tim's face glowed at the sight. 

"This is the best grazin' this range has ever produced in my day, " hesaid, "too much of it here for that little band you're runnin'. I'llsend Dad over with three thousand more this week. You can camptogether--it'll save me a wagon, and he'll be company. How's Joangettin on with the learnin'?"

"She's eating it up. "

"I was afraid it'd be that way, " said Tim, gloomily; "you can'tdiscourage that girl. "

"She's too sincere and capable to be discouraged. I laid down my handlong 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 hisboss' broad back grow smaller from hill to hill. The sheepherdersmiled as he recalled Tim's puzzled inquiry on the other considerationof Jacob's contract with the slippery Laban. 

_What is this thou hast done unto me? Did not I serve with thee forRachel? Wherefore then hast thou beguiled me?_

"Tim would do it, too, " Mackenzie said, nodding his grave head; "he'dwork 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 hismild, shrewd face. Even if he should remember on the way home, or getout his Bible on his arrival and look the story up, there would benothing of a parallel between the case of Jacob and that of JohnMackenzie to worry his sheepman's head. For though Jacob served hisseven years for Rachel, which "seemed to him but a few days, for thelove he had to her, " he, John Mackenzie, was not serving Tim Sullivanfor Joan. 

"Nothing to that!" said he, but smiling, a dream in his eyes, over thethought of what might have been a parallel case with Jacob's, here inthe sheeplands of the western world. 

Tim was scarcely out of sight when a man came riding over the hillsfrom the opposite direction. Mackenzie sighted him afar off, watchinghim as each hill lifted him to a plainer view. He was a stranger, anda man unsparing of his horse, pushing it uphill and down withunaltered speed. He rode as if the object of his journey lay a longdistance ahead, and his time for reaching it was short. 

Mackenzie wondered if the fellow had stolen the horse, having it morethan half in mind to challenge his passage until he could give anaccount of his haste, when he saw that the rider had no intention ofgoing by without speech. As he mounted the crest of the hill above theflock, he swung straight for the spot where Mackenzie stood. 

The stranger drew up with a short grunt of greeting, turning his gazeover the range as if in search of strayed stock. He was a short, spareman, a frowning cast in his eyes, a face darkly handsome, butunsympathetic as a cougar's. He looked down at Mackenzie presently, asif he had put aside the recognition of his presence as a secondarymatter, 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 incatlike threat of a snarl. 

"I'm grazing that little band of sheep you see down yonder, " Mackenziereturned, evenly, running his eyes over the fellow's gear. 

This was rather remarkable for a land out of which strife andcontention, murder and sudden death were believed to have passed longago. The man wore two revolvers, slung about his slender frame on abroad belt looped around for cartridges. These loops were empty, butthe weight of the weapons themselves sagged the belt far down on thewearer's hips. His leather cuffs were garnitured with silver stars inthe Mexican style; he wore a red stone in his black necktie, which wastied with care, the flowing ends of it tucked into the bosom of hisdark-gray flannel shirt. 

"If you're tryin' to be funny, cut it out; I'm not a funny man, " hesaid. "I asked you what you're doing over here east of HorsethiefCañon?"

"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 isin reserve. If he didn't tell you it was because he wanted to run youinto trouble, I guess. You'll have to get them sheep out of here, anddo 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 eyeswhich Dad Frazer had described as holding such a throat-cutting look. But armed as he was, severe and flash-tempered as he seemed, Mackenziewas not in any sort of a flurry to give ground before him. He lookedup at him coolly, felt in his pocket for his pipe, filled it withdeliberation, 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 ongovernment land that's as much mine as the next man's. I don't like torefuse a neighbor a request, but my sheep are going to stay righthere. "

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 thatlucky thump you landed on Swan Carlson. You've got about as muchchance with that man as you have with a grizzly bear, and you've gotless chance with me. You've got till this time tomorrow to be sixmiles west of here with that band of sheep. "

Hall rode off with that word, leaving a pretty good impression that hemeant it, and that it was final. Mackenzie hadn't a doubt that hewould 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 agreementor right of priority which sheepmen were supposed to respect betweenthemselves, Tim Sullivan knew it, Mackenzie reflected. For a monthpast 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 anobstacle in her road, he believed at the time. Now it began to showanother purpose. Perhaps this was the winter pasture claimed by theHall brothers, and Tim had sent him in where he was afraid to comehimself. 

It seemed a foolish thing to squabble over a piece of grazing landwhere all the world lay out of doors, but Hector Hall's way of comingup to it was unpleasant. It was decidedly offensive, bullying, oppressive. If he should give way before it he'd just as well leavethe range, Mackenzie knew; his force would be spent there, his dayclosed before it had fairly begun. If he designed seriously to remainthere and become a flockmaster, and that he intended to do, with allthe sincerity in him, he'd have to meet Hall's bluff with a strongerone, and stand his ground, whether right or wrong. If wrong, agentleman's adjustment could be made, his honor saved. 

So deciding, he settled that matter, and put it out of his head untilits hour. There was something more pleasant to cogitate--the parallelof Jacob and Laban, Tim Sullivan and himself. It was strange how thecraft of Laban had come down to Tim Sullivan across that mighty flightof time. It would serve Tim the right turn, in truth, if somethingshould come of it between him and Joan. He smiled in anticipatorypleasure at Tim's discomfiture and surprise. 

But that was not in store for him, he sighed. Joan would shake herwings out in a little while, and fly away, leaving him there, a dustysheepman, among the husks of his dream. Still, a man might dream on asunny 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 himselfdrunk on them, insane on them in the end, as so many of them were saidto do in that land of lonesomeness, where there was scarcely an echoto give a man back his own faint voice in mockery of his solitude. 

Evening, with the sheep homing to the bedding-ground, broughtreflections of a different hue. Since the raid on his flock Mackenziehad given up his bunk in the wagon for a bed under a bush on thehillside nearer the sheep. Night after night he lay with the rifle athis hand, waiting the return of the grisly monster who had spent hisfury 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 wasanother 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 itwas a grizzly. Tim Sullivan had come over with the same opinion, noword of doubt in his mouth. But Mackenzie knew that when he shouldmeet that wild night-prowler he would face a thing more savage than abear, a thing as terrible to grapple with as the saber-tooth whosebones 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 asto cause Mackenzie the liveliest concern. He feared that the madcreature who spent his fury tearing sheep limb from limb might havevisited her camp, and that she had fallen into his bloody hands. 

A matter of eight or nine miles lay between their camps; Mackenzie hadno horse to cover it. More than once he was on the point of leavingthe sheep to shift for themselves and striking out on foot; many timeshe walked a mile or more in that direction, to mount the highest hillhe could discover, and stand long, sweeping the blue distance withtroubled eyes. Yet in the end he could not go. Whatever was wrong, hecould not set right at that late hour, he reasoned; to leave the sheepwould be to throw open the gates of their defense to dangers alwaysready 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 manto his bargain and his task. 

Joan came late in the afternoon, rising the nearest hilltop with asuddenness quite startling, waving a cheerful greeting as if to assurehim from a distance that all was well. She stood looking at him inamazement when she flipped to the ground like a bird, her face growingwhite, 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 HectorHall's belt--I've seen him wearing it! There his initials are, workedout in silver tacks! Where did you get it?"

"Mr. Hall left it here. What kept you, Joan? I've been worried aboutyou. "

"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 andfear. 

"Left his guns! Well, what did you do with _him_?"

"I suppose he went home, Joan. Did anything happen over your way tokeep you?"

"Charley was sick, " she said, shortly, abstractedly, drowned in herwonder of the thing he told with his native reluctance when questionedon 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 havea fight with Hector Hall, Mr. Mackenzie?"

She came near him as she questioned him, her great, soft eyes pleadingin fear, and laid her hand on his shoulder as if to hold him againstany further evasion. He smiled a little, in his stingy way of doingit, taking her hand to allay her tumult of distress. 

"Not much of a fight, Joan. Mr. Hall came over here to drive me offof this range, and I had to take his guns away from him to keep himfrom hurting me. That's all there was to it. "

"All there was to it!" said Joan. "Why, he's one of the meanest menthat ever lived! He'll never rest till he kills you. I wish you'd lethim 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 havebluffed us out of it for the past three summers and run their sheepover here in the winter-time. I always wanted to fight for it, but dadlet 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 onthe contested territory, are you?"

"No; they lay claim as far as Horsethief Cañon, but they'd just aswell 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 withouthis guns!" she speculated, looking off over the hills in the directionof 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. Mackenziepointed 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 troubledspeculation on what form Hector Hall's revenge would take, and whenthe stealthy blow of his resentment would fall. Try as he would, Mackenzie could not fasten her mind upon the books. She would beginwith a brave resolution, only to wander away, the book closedpresently upon her thumb, her eyes searching the hazy hills wheretrouble lay out of sight. At last she gave it up, with a littlecatching 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 ifthey do, Rachel, there's nobody to grieve. "

"Rachel? My name isn't Rachel, " said Joan, a little hurt. For it wasnot in flippancy or banter that he had called her out of her name; hiseyes were not within a hundred leagues of that place, his heart awaywith 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 leastMackenzie thought he read a resentful note in the quick rejoinder, aresentful flash of color in her cheek. 

"Yes, but a mighty old girl, Joan, " he confessed, smiling with afeeling of lightness around his heart. 

"Somebody you used to know?" face turned away, voice light in acareless, 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 timeago. "

Joan brightened at this news. She ceased denying him her face, evensmiled a little, seeming to forget Hector Hall and his pendingvengeance. 

"Well, what about her?" she asked. 

He told her which Rachel he had in mind, but Joan only shook her headand 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 hiscoming to the well with the great stone at its mouth which the maidenscould 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 thehills in a mind-wandering way. Joan touched his arm, impatient withsuch 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 wasindignant when she heard how Laban gave Jacob the weak-eyed girl for awife in place of his beloved Rachel, for whom he had worked the sevenyears. 

"Jake must have been a bright one!" said she. "How could the old manput one over on him like that?"

"You'll have to read the story, " said Mackenzie. "It's sundown; don'tyou think you'd better be going back to camp, Joan?"

But Joan was in no haste to leave. She walked with him as he workedthe sheep to their bedding-ground, her bridle-rein over her arm. Shecould get back to camp before dark, she said; Charley would not beworried. 

Joan could not have said as much for herself. Her eyes were pools oftrouble, her face was anxious and strained. She went silently besideMackenzie while the dogs worked the sheep along with more than humanpatience, almost human intelligence. Frequently she looked into hisface with a plea dumbly eloquent, but did not again put her fear forhim into words. Only when she stood beside her horse near thesheep-wagon, ready to mount and leave him to his solitary supper, shespoke of Hector Hall's revolvers, which Mackenzie had unstrapped andput 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 himwhich she had not known before. He heard it with a warm uplifting ofthe heart, all without reason, he knew, for it was the range way to befamiliar on a shorter acquaintance than theirs. 

"I'm going to give them back to him, " he said. "I've been carryingthem around ever since he left them in the hope he'd get ashamed ofhimself and come for them. "

Joan started at the sound of galloping hoofs, which rose suddenly outof 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 pacealtogether reckless. Mackenzie saw at a glance that neither of themwas Hector Hall, but one a woman, her loose garments flapping as sherode. 

"It's Swan Carlson and his wife!" he said, unable to cover hisamazement at the sight. 

"What do you suppose they're doing over here?" Joan drew a littlenearer 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 promisedlittle of such development. She came on at Swan's side, leaningforward a little, as light and sure in the saddle as any cowboy on therange. They bore down toward the sheep-wagon as if they had nointention of halting, jerking their horses up in Indian fashion a fewfeet from where Mackenzie and Joan stood. The animals slid on stifflegs, hoofs plowing the soft ground, raising a cloud of dust whichdimmed the riders momentarily. 

Neither of the abrupt visitors spoke. They sat silently staring, not arod between them and the two on foot, the woman as unfriendly of faceas the man. And Swan Carlson had not improved in this feature sinceMackenzie parted from him in violence a few weeks before. His red hairwas shorter now, his drooping mustache longer, the points of itreaching two inches below his chin. He was gaunt of cheek, hollow ofeyes, like a man who had gone hungry or suffered a sorrow that ateaway his heart. 

His wife had improved somewhat in outward appearance. Her face hadfilled, the pathetic uncertainty had gone from her eyes. She was notuncomely as she sat astride her good bay horse, her divided skirt ofcorduroy wide on its flanks, a man's gray shirt laced over her bosom, the collar open, showing the fairness of her neck. Her abundant hairwas braided, and wound closely about her head like a cap. Freedom hadmade a strange alteration in her. It seemed, indeed, as if SwanCarlson had breathed into her the breath of his own wild soul, makingher over according to the desire of his heart. 

Mackenzie stepped out in invitation for Swan to state the occasion ofhis boisterous visit, and stood waiting in silence while the twostrange creatures continued to stare. Swan lifted his hand in a mannerof salutation, no change either of friendship or animosity in hislean, 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 anyrecollection in him of the hard usage he had received at Mackenzie'shands, it did not seem to be bitter. 

"Ride on, " said Mackenzie. 

Mrs. Carlson urged her horse with sudden start close to where Joanstood, 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 theface of the girl whose freshness and beauty had drawn the wild banterfrom 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 theshoulder and neck. Mackenzie sprang between them, but Mrs. Carlson, her defiance passed in that one blow, did not follow it up. Swanopened wide his great mouth and pealed out his roaring laughter, not aline of mirth softening in his face, not a gleam of it in his eyes. Itwas a sound without a note to express human warmth, or humansatisfaction. 

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 bywhich she might retaliate. Hector Hall's pistols hung on the end-gateof the sheep-wagon not more than twenty feet away. It seemed that Joancovered the distance in a bound, snatched one of the guns and fired. Her own horse stood between her and the wild range woman, whichperhaps accounted for her miss. Mackenzie was holding her wrist beforeshe could shoot again. 

Swan let out another roar of heartless laughter, and together with hiswoman galloped down the hill. Ahead of them the sheep were assembled, packed close in their huddling way of seeking comfort and courage innumbers, just beginning to compose themselves for the night. Straightinto the flock Swan Carlson and his woman rode, trampling such ascould not rise and leap aside, crushing such lambs as were not nimbleenough 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 mightfire again. 

"All right, let 'em have it!" Mackenzie said, seeing the havoc amongthe sheep. 

Swan and his woman rode like a whirlwind through the flock, the dogsafter them with sharp cries, the frightened bleating of the lambs, thebeating of two thousand hoofs, adding to the confusion of what hadbeen a peaceful pastoral scene but a few minutes before. Joan cutloose 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 theleg, 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 riflefrom the wagon. His shot came so close to Swan that he dropped thelamb. The woman fell behind Swan, interposing herself as a shield, andin this formation they rode on, sweeping down the narrow thread ofgreen valley, galloping wildly away into the sanctuary of the hills. 

Mackenzie stood, gun half lifted, and watched them go without anothershot, afraid to risk it lest he hit the woman. He turned to Joan, whostood by, white with anger, the empty revolver in her hand. 

"Are you hurt, Joan?" he asked, in foolish weakness, knowing very wellthat 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 thatshook her. There was a red welt on her neck, purple-marked on itsridge 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 getsto going. "

"With those two and the Hall boys you'll not have a ghost of a chanceto hold this range, John. You'd better let me help you begin workingthe 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 ofyour camp. More than likely they'll come over and burn you outtonight--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, ifyou don't come away. It isn't worth it; dad was right about it. Forthe sake of peace, let them have it, John. "

Mackenzie stood in silence, looking the way Swan and his woman hadgone, the gun held as if ready to lift and fire at the showing of ahat-crown over the next hill. He seemed to be considering thesituation. Joan studied his face with eager hopefulness, bendingforward 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 toall of them at once. "

Joan knew there was no use to argue or appeal. She dropped the matterthere, and Mackenzie put the gun away. 

"I'm sorry I haven't anything to put on it, " he said, looking at thered 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 thehurt 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, andtake 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 andlaid his hand consolingly upon the burning mark. 

Joan caught her breath as if he had touched her skin with ice. Hewithdrew his hand quickly, blaming himself for the rudeness of hisrough hand. 

"You didn't hurt me, John, " she said, her eyes downcast, the color ofwarm blood playing over her face. 

"I might have, " he blamed himself, in such seriousness as if it werethe gravest matter he had risked, and not the mere touching of ablood-red welt upon a simple maiden's neck. 

"I'll be over early in the morning to see if you're all right, " shetold 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 andthe prospect and all of it go, and have your father put a herder in torun 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 everbe a sheepman, I guess. But I've met bears enough that I don't have toimagine 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 weredriving the straggling sheep back to the bedding-ground, where many ofthem already lay in contentment, quickly over the flurry of SwanCarlson's passing. Joan stood at her stirrup, her face lifted to theheavens, and it was white as an evening primrose under the shadow ofher hat. She lingered as if there remained something to say or besaid, something to give or to take, before leaving her friend andteacher alone to face the dangers of the night. Perhaps she thought ofRachel, and the kiss her kinsman gave her when he rolled the stonefrom the well's mouth, and lifted up his voice and wept. 

Mackenzie stood a little apart, thinking his own swift-runningthoughts, quickening under the leap of his own eager blood. But nomatter for Jacob's precedent, Mackenzie had no excuse of even distantrelationship to offer for such familiarity. The desire was urging, butthe justification was not at hand. So Joan rode away unkissed, andperhaps wondering why. 

CHAPTER XI

HECTOR HALL SETS A BEACON

Mackenzie sat a long time on his hill that night, his ear turnedto the wind, smoking his pipe and thinking the situation overwhile listening for the first sound of commotion among the sheep. He had pledged himself to Tim and Joan that he would not quitthe sheep country without proving that he had in him the mettleof a flockmaster. Hector Hall had been given to understand thesame thing. In fact, Mackenzie thought, it looked as if he hadbeen running with his eyes shut, making boastful pledges. 

He might have to hedge on some of them, or put them through at a costfar beyond the profit. It came that way to a boaster of his intentionssometimes, especially so when a man spoke too quickly and assumed toomuch. Here he was standing face to a fight that did not appear topromise 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 theflockmasters and cattlemen had worn themselves out save for anoutbreak of little consequence in the far places now and then. But thepeace of this place had been a coward's peace, paid for in money andhumiliation. 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 edgingover on Tim Sullivan's range, or take up his pack and trudge out ofthe sheep country as he had come. By staying there and fighting forTim Sullivan's interests he might arrive in time at a dustyconsequence, his fame, measured in thousands of sheep, reaching evento Jasper and Cheyenne, and perhaps to the stock-yards commissionoffices 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 measureof his fame. By what sacrifice, through what adventure, how muchstriving and hard living he might come to the fame of twenty thousandsheep, no man would know or care. There in the dusty silences of thatgray-green land he would bury the man and the soul that reached upwardin him with pleasant ambitions, to become a creature over sheep. Justa step higher than the sheep themselves, wind-buffeted, cold-cursed, seared and blistered and hardened like a callous through which theurging 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 vastsatisfaction in looking back over the small triumphs won againsttremendous forces, the successful contest with wild winter storm, ravaging disease, night-prowling beasts. Nature was the big forcearrayed against a flockmaster, and it was unkind and menacing sevenmonths out of the year. That must be the secret of a flockmaster'ssatisfaction with himself and his lot, Mackenzie thought; he couldcount himself a fit companion for the old gods, if he knew anythingabout them, after his victory over every wild force that could be bentagainst him among those unsheltered hills. 

The Hall brothers were a small pest to be stamped out and forgotten inthe prosperity of multiplying flocks. As for Swan Carlson, poorsavage, there might be some way of reaching him without furtherviolence between them. Wild and unfeeling as he seemed, there must bea 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 romanticattraction which had not been apparent to him before. In his way, every flockmaster was a hero, inflexible against the unreckoned forceswhich rose continually to discourage him. This was true, as he longhad realized, of a man who plants in the soil, risking the large partof his capital of labor year by year. But the sheepman's risks weregreater, his courage immensely superior, to that of the tiller of thesoil. One storm might take his flock down to the last head, leavinghim nothing to start on again but his courage and his hope. 

It appeared to Mackenzie to be the calling of a proper man. Aflockmaster need not be a slave to the range, as most of them were. Hemight sit in his office, as a few of them did, and do the thing like agentleman. There were possibilities of dignity in it heretoforeoverlooked; Joan would think better of it if she could see it donethat way. Surely, it was a business that called for a fight to buildand a fight to hold, but it was the calling of a proper man. 

Mackenzie was immensely cheered by his reasoning the sheep businessinto the romantic and heroic class. Here were allurements of which hehad not dreamed, to be equaled only by the calling of the sea, and notby any other pursuit on land at all. A man who appreciated the subtleshadings of life could draw a great deal of enjoyment and self-prideout of the business of flockmaster. It was one of the most ancientpursuits of man. Abraham was a flockmaster; maybe Adam. 

But for all of the new comfort he had found in the calling he hadadopted, Mackenzie was plagued by a restless, broken sleep when hecomposed himself among the hillside shrubs above the sheep. A vaguesense of something impending held him from rest. It was present overhis senses like a veil of drifting smoke through his shallow sleep. Twice he moved his bed, with the caution of some haunted beast; manytimes he started in his sleep, clutching like a falling man, to sit upalert and instantly awake. 

There was something in the very tension of the night-silence thatwarned him to be on the watch. It was not until long after midnightthat he relaxed his straining, uneasy vigil, and stretched himself tounvexed sleep. He could steal an hour or two from the sheep in theearly morning, he told himself, as he felt the sweet restfulness ofslumber sweeping over him; the helpless creatures would remain on thebedding-ground long after sunrise if he did not wake, waiting for himto come and set them about the great business of their lives. Theyhadn't sense enough to range out and feed themselves without thedirection of man's guiding hand. 

Mackenzie had dipped but a little way into his refreshing rest whenthe alarmed barking of his dogs woke him with such sudden wrench thatit ached. He sat up, senses drenched in sleep for a struggling moment, groping for his rifle. The dogs went charging up the slope toward thewagon, the canvas top of which he could see indistinctly on thehillside through the dark. 

As Mackenzie came to his feet, fully awake and on edge, the dogsmouthed their cries as if they closed in on the disturber of the nightat 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 againthere was the sound of thick, rapid blows. One dog came back to itsmaster, pressing against his legs for courage. Mackenzie shouted, hoping to draw the intruder into revealing himself, not wanting theblood of even a rascal such as the night-prowler on his hands througha chance shot into the dark. There was no answer, no sound from thedeep blackness that pressed like troubled waters close to the ground. 

The dog clung near to Mackenzie's side, his growling deep in histhroat. Mackenzie could feel the beast tremble as it pressed againsthim, and bent to caress it and give it confidence. At his reassuringtouch the beast bounded forward to the charge again, only to comeyelping back, and continue on down the hill toward the flock. 

Mackenzie fired again, dodging quickly behind a clump of bushes afterthe flash of his gun. As he crouched there, peering and strainingahead into the dark, strong hands laid hold of him, and tore his rifleaway from him and flung him to the ground. One came running from thewagon, low words passed between the man who held Mackenzie pinned tothe ground, knees astride him, his hands doubled back against his chinin a grip that was like fetters. This one who arrived in haste gropedaround until he found Mackenzie's rifle. 

"Let him up, " he said. 

Mackenzie stood, his captor twisting his arms behind him with suchsilent ease that it was ominous of what might be expected should thesheepherder set up a struggle to break free. 

"Bud, I've come over after my guns, " said Hector Hall, speaking closeto Mackenzie's ear. 

"They're up at the wagon, " Mackenzie told him, with rather an injuredair. "You didn't need to make all this trouble about it; I was keepingthem for you. "

"Go on up and get 'em, " Hall commanded, prodding Mackenzie in the ribswith the barrel of his own gun. 

The one who held Mackenzie said nothing, but walked behind him, rathershoved 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 againat his side. 

"Let him go, " he said. And to Mackenzie: "Don't try to throw anytricks 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 suchdepths by this disgrace that had overtaken him that he cared littlefor the moment whether he should live or die. 

Hall spoke a low, mumbled, unintelligible word to the one who stoodbehind Mackenzie, and another gun pressed coldly against the back ofthe 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 theexpiring match at his feet Mackenzie could see the ex-cattlemanbuckling on the guns. 

"Bud, you've been actin' kind of rash around here, " Hall said, ininsolent satisfaction with the turn of events. "You had your lucky daywith me, like you had with Swan Carlson, but I gave you a sneak'schance to leave the country while the goin' was good. If you everleave it now the wind'll blow you out. Back him up to that wagonwheel!"

Mackenzie was at the end of his tractable yielding to commands, seeingdimly what lay before him. He lashed out in fury at the man whopressed the weapon to his neck, twisting round in a sweep of passionthat made the night seem to burst in a rain of fire, careless of whatimmediate 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 growlbetween his teeth. 

Mackenzie's quick blows seemed to fall impotently on the body of theman who now grappled with him, face to face, Hector Hall throwinghimself into the tangle from the rear. Mackenzie, seeing his assaultshaping for a speedy end in his own defeat, now attempted to breakaway and seek shelter in the dark among the bushes. He wrenched freefor a moment, ducked, ran, only to come down in a few yards withHector Hall on his back like a catamount. 

Fighting every inch of the way, Mackenzie was dragged back to thewagon, where his captors backed him against one of the hind wheels andbound him, his arms outstretched across the spokes in the manner of aman crucified. 

They had used Mackenzie illy in that fight to get him back to thewagon; 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 ragethrobbed in him which lifted him above the thought of consequences ashe strained at the ropes which held his arms. 

They left his feet free, as if to mock him with half liberty in theordeal they had set for him to face. One mounted the front wagon wheelnear Mackenzie, and the light of slow-coming dawn on the sky beyondhim showed his hand uplifted as if he sprinkled something over thewagon sheet. The smell of kerosene spread through the still air; amatch crackled on the wagon tire. A flash, a sudden springing offlame, a roar, and the canvas was enveloped in fire. 

Mackenzie leaned against his bonds, straining away from the suddenheat, the fast-running fire eating the canvas from the bows, the bunkwithin, and all the furnishings and supplies, on fire. There seemed tobe no wind, a merciful circumstance, for a whip of the high-strivingflames would have wrapped him, stifling out his life in a moment. 

Hall and the other man, who had striven with Mackenzie in suchpowerful silence, had drawn away from the fire beyond his sight toenjoy the thing they had done. Mackenzie, turning his fearful gazeover his shoulder, calculated his life in seconds. The fire was at hisback, his hair was crinkling in the heat of it, a little moving breathof wind to fill the sudden vacuum drew a tongue of blaze with sharpthreat against his cheek. 

In a moment the oil-drenched canvas would be gone, the flamingcontents of the wagon, the woodwork of box and running gears left toburn more slowly, and his flesh and bones must mingle ashes with theashes, to be blown on the wind, as Hector Hall had so grimlyprophesied. What a pitiful, poor, useless ending of all hiscalculations and plans!

A shot at the top of the hill behind the wagon, a rush of gallopinghoofs; another shot, and another. Below him Hall and his comrade rodeaway, floundering in haste through the sleeping flock, the one poordog left out of Mackenzie's three tearing after them, venting hisimpotent defiance in sharp yelps of the chase. 

Joan. Mackenzie knew it was Joan before she came riding into thefirelight, throwing herself from the horse before it stopped. Throughthe pain of his despair--above the rebellious resentment of the thingthat fate had played upon him this bitter gray morning; above theanguish of his hopeless moment, the poignant striving of his torturedsoul to meet the end with resolution and calm defiance worthy aman--he had expected Joan. 

Why, based on what reason, he could not have told, then nor in theyears that came afterward. But always the thought of Joan coming tohim like the wings of light out of the east. 

And so Joan had come, as he strained on his bound arms to draw hisface a few inches farther from the fire, as he stifled in the smokeand heavy gases of the burning oil; Joan had come, and her hand wascool on his forehead, her voice was tender in his ear, and she wasleading him into the blessed free air, the east widening in a bar oflight like a waking eye. 

Joan was panting, the knife that had cut his bonds still open in herhand. They stood face to face, a little space between them, her greateyes pouring their terrified sympathy into his soul. Neither spoke, adaze over them, a numbness on their tongues, the dull shock of death'sclose 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 theammunition in the burning wagon began to explode, and Joan, shudderingas 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 winterblast, only cried the harder into her hands. He stood with handtouching her shoulder lightly, the quiver of her body shaking him tothe heart. But no matter how inviting the opening, a man could notspeak what rose in his heart to say, standing as he stood, a debtor insuch measure. To say what he would have said to Joan, he must standclear and towering in manliness, no taint of humiliation on his soul. 

Mackenzie groaned in spirit, and his words were a groan, as he saidagain:

"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 atsunset. 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, andto the back of his head where his scorched hair broke crisply underhis palm. Joan looked at him, the aging stamp of waking and worry inher 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 thatway, " she said. 

"But if I'd have waked and watched like you, Joan, they wouldn't havegot me. I started to watch, but I didn't keep it up like you. When Ishould 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 thedogs to death, and grab me and get my gun! Great God! I deserve to beburned!"

"Hush!" she chided, fearfully. "Hush!"

"One of them was Hector Hall--he came after his guns. If I'd been aman, the shadow of a man, I'd made him swallow them the day Itook--the time he left them here. "

"Matt was with him, " said Joan. "You couldn't do anything; no mancould 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 simplefool 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 thewreckage of the burning wagon, where he halted a moment, the stronglight of the fire on his face: Swan Carlson, hatless, his hairstreaming, his great mustache pendant beside his stony mouth. He cameon toward them at once. Joan laid her hand on her revolver. 

"You got a fire here, " said Swan, stopping near them, leaningcuriously 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 youneeded any help. "

"Thank you, not now. It's gone; nothing can be done. "

"I smelt coal oil, " said Swan, throwing back his head, sniffing theair like a buck. "Who done it?"

"Some of your neighbors, " said Mackenzie. 

"I knowed they would, " Swan nodded. "Them fellers don't fight like meand you, they don't stand up like a man. When I seen you take thatfeller by the leg that day and upset him off of his horse and grab hisguns off of him, I knowed he'd burn you out. "

Joan, forgetting her fear and dislike of Swan Carlson in her interestof 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, leaningagain 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 thesheep-wagon to ride to the fire. There was a wild, high pride in hiscold, handsome face as he sat up in the saddle as if to show Joan hismighty bulk, and he stretched out his long arms like an eagle on itscrag flexing its pinions in the morning sun. 

"Did he--did Hector Hall sling a gun on Mr. Mackenzie that time?" sheasked, pressing forward eagerly. 

"Never mind, Joan--let that go, " said Mackenzie, putting his armbefore her to stay her, speaking hastily, as if to warn her back froma danger. 

"He didn't have time to sling a gun on him, " said Swan, greatsatisfaction in his voice as he recalled the scene. "Your man he'slike a cat when he jumps for a feller, but he ain't got the muscle inhis back like me. "

"There's nobody in this country like you, Swan, " said Joan, pleasedwith him, friendly toward him, for his praise of the one he boldlycalled her man. 

"No, I can roll 'em all, " Swan said, as gravely as if he would be hungon the testimony. "You ought to have me for your man; then you'd havesomebody no feller on this range would burn out. "

"You've got a wife, Swan, " Joan said, with gentle reproof, but puttingthe 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 ifto come to the ground and start the contest on the moment, hung there, looking Mackenzie in the face, the light of morning revealing themarks of his recent battle. "Not now, you've had a fight already, "said Swan, settling back into the saddle. "But when you brace up, thenI'll fight you for her. What?"

"Any time, " Mackenzie told him, speaking easily, as if humoring thewhim of some irresponsible person. 

With a sudden start of his horse Swan rode close to Joan, Mackenziethrowing himself between them, catching the bridle, hurling the animalback. Swan did not take notice of the interference, only leaned farover, stretching his long neck, his great mustaches like the tusks ofan old walrus, and strained a long look into Joan's face. Then hewhirled 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 ammunitionhaving ceased. The woodwork was all on fire; soon it would be reducedto bolts and tires. Joan's spirits seemed to have risen with thebroadening 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'ttell dad I was over here, please, John. He wouldn't like it if he knewI'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 cheapherder 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 strongerthan 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 himto 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 comeriding to his rescue in the last hours of her troubled night; notbecause she feared his censure or his anger, or wanted to conceal herdeed for reasons of modesty from anyone. Only to spare him thehumiliation of having his failure known, Mackenzie understood. Thatwas her purpose, and her sole purpose, in seeking his pledge tosecrecy. 

It would hurt him to have it go abroad that he had allowed them tosneak into his camp, seize him, disarm him, bind him, and set the firethat was to make ashes of him for the winds to blow away. It would dofor him with Tim Sullivan entirely if that should become known, withthe additional humiliation of being saved from this shameful death bya woman. No matter how immeasurable his own gratitude, no matter howwide his own pride in her for what she had done, the sheep countrynever would be able to see it with his eyes. It would be anothersmirch for him, and such a deep one as to obscure him and his chancesthere forever. 

Joan knew it. In her generosity, her interest for his future, shewanted her part in it to remain unknown. 

"You must promise me, John, " she said. "I'll never come to takeanother 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 anda stranger. They stopped at the ruins of the sheep-wagon, where Timdismounted and nosed around, then came on down the draw, whereMackenzie was ranging the sheep. 

Tim was greatly exercised over the loss of the wagon. He pitched intoMackenzie about it as soon as he came within speaking distance. 

"How did you do it--kick over the lantern?" he inquired, his facecloudy with ill-held wrath. 

Mackenzie explained, gruffly and in few words, how the wagon wasfired, sparing his own perilous adventure and the part that Joan hadborne in it. This slowed Tim down, and set him craning his neck overthe country to see if any further threat of violence impended on thehorizon. 

"Them Hall boys ought to be men enough not to do me a trick like thatafter the way I've give in to them on this side of the range, " hesaid. Then to Mackenzie, sharply: "It wouldn't 'a' happened if youhadn't took Hector's guns away from him that time. A sheepman's got noright to be fightin' around on the range. If he wants to brawl andscrap, let him do it when he goes to town, the way the cowboys usedto. "

"Maybe you're right; I'm beginning to think you are, " Mackenziereturned. 

"Right? Of course I'm right. A sheepman's got to set his head tobusiness, and watchin' the corners to prevent losses like this thateats up the profit, and not go around with his sleeves rolled up andhis jaw slewed, lookin' for a fight. And if he starts one he's got tohave the backbone and the gizzard to hold up his end of it, and notlet 'em put a thing like this over on him. Why wasn't you in the wagonlast 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 thebrush with your tail between your legs like a kicked pup and let 'emset my new wagon afire. How did you git your face bunged up thatway?"

"I fell down, " Mackenzie said, with a sarcasm meant only for himself, feeling that he had described his handling of the past situation in aword. 

"Runnin' off, I reckon. Well, I tell you, John, it won't do, that kindof business won't do. Them Hall boys are mighty rough fellers, toorough for a boy like you that's been runnin' with school children allhis life. You got some kind of a lucky hitch on Hector when youstripped 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 ofluck won't play into a man's hands one time in a thousand. You neverought 'a' started anything with them fellers unless you had the weightin your hind-quarters to keep it goin'. "

"You're right, " said Mackenzie, swallowing the rebuke like a bitterpill. 

"Right? You make me tired standin' there and takin' it like a sickcat! If you was half the man I took you to be when you struck thisrange you'd resent a callin' down like I'm givin' you. But you don'tresent it, you take it, like you sneaked and let them fellers burnthat wagon and them supplies of mine. If you was expectin' 'em to turnthat 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 thathad bent him down all morning like a shameful load. "Everybody on thisrange knows you're a fighting man--you've fought the wind gettin' awayfrom this side of the range every time you saw smoke, you've got areputation for standing out for your rights like a man with a gizzardin him as big as a sack of bran! Sure, I know all about the way you'vebacked out of here and let Carlson and the Halls bluff you out of theland 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 afire. He made a smoothing, adjusting, pacificating gesture with hishands, looking with something between deep concern and shame over hisshoulder at the man who accompanied him, and who sat off a few feet inhis saddle, a grin over his face. 

"Now, John, I don't mean for you to take it that I'm throwin' any slurover your courage for the way things has turned out--I don't want youto take it that way at all, lad, " said Tim. 

"I'm not a fighting man"--Mackenzie was getting hotter as he wenton--"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 thisrange for you that this crowd's been backing you off of a littlefarther each spring. You're the brave spirit that's needed here--ifsomebody could tie you and hold you to face the men that have robbedyou of the best range you've got. I put down my hand; I get out of theway 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 hotunder 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 alwayscome out on top you rib me like the devil's own for it. You expectedme to fight to hold this grass, but you didn't expect me to loseanything at all. Well, I'll hold the range for you, Sullivan; youdon't need to lose any sleep over that. But if I'm willing to risk myskin to do it, by thunder, you ought to be game enough to stand theloss 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 UncleSam for, you're doin' elegant fine, lad. I was hasty, my tongue gotout from under the bit, boy. Let it pass; don't you go holdin' itagainst an old feller like me that's got the worry of forty-oddthousand sheep on his mind day and night. "

"It's easy enough to say, but it don't let you out. You've got no callto come here and wade into me without knowing anything about thecircumstances. "

"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 tothem fellers and held 'em off my grass. You've done things up like aman, 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 manya day since I had one burnt up on me that way. Pass it up, pass upanything I've said about it, John. That's the lad. "

So John passed it up, and unbent to meet the young man who rode withTim, whom the sheepman presented as Earl Reid, from Omaha, son ofMalcolm Reid, an old range partner and friend. The young man had comeout to learn the sheep business; Tim had brought him over forMackenzie to break in. Dad Frazer was coming along with three thousandsheep, due to arrive in about a week. When he got there, theapprentice would split his time between them. 

Mackenzie received the apprentice as cordially as he could, but it wasnot as ardent a welcome as the young man may have expected, owing tothe gloom of resentment into which Sullivan's outbreak had thrown thisunlucky herder on the frontier of the range. 

Reid was rather a sophisticated looking youth of twenty-two ortwenty-three, city broke, city marked. There was a poolroom pallorabout this thin face, a poolroom stoop to his thin shoulders, thatMackenzie did not like. But he was frank and ingenuous in hismanner, with a ready smile that redeemed his homely face, and a pairof blue eyes that seemed young in their innocence compared to theworld-knowledge that his face betrayed. 

"Take the horses down there to the crick and water 'em, " Tim directedhis new herder, "and then you'll ride back with me as far as Joan'scamp and fetch over some grub to hold you two fellers till the wagoncomes. Joan, she'll know what to give you, and I guess you can findyour way back here?"

"Surest thing you know, " said Earl, with easy confidence, riding offto water the horses. 

"That kid's no stranger to the range, " Mackenzie said, more to himselfthan to Tim, as he watched him ride off. 

"No, he used to be around with the cowboys on Malcolm's ranch when hewas in the cattle business. He can handle a horse as good as you orme. Malcolm was the man that set me up in the sheep business; Istarted in with him like you're startin' with me, more than thirtyyears ago. He was the first sheepman on this range, and he had tofight to hold his own, I'm here to say!"

"You'd better send the kid over into peaceful territory, " Mackenziesuggested, crabbedly. 

"No, the old man wants him to get a taste of what he went through tomake his start--he was tickled to the toes when he heard the way themHall boys are rarin' up and you standin' 'em off of this range ofmine. 'Send him over there with that man, ' he says; 'that's the kindof a man I want him to break in under. ' The old feller was tickledclean 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 athing about it, but I couldn't turn Malcolm down. " Tim winked, lookedcunning, nodded in a knowing way. "Kid's been cuttin' up throwin' awaytoo much money; gettin' into scrapes like a boy in town will, youknow. Wild oats and a big crop of 'em. The old man's staked him outwith me for three years, and he ain't to draw one cent of pay, or haveone cent to spend, in that time. If he breaks over, it's all offbetween 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 withthe horses. 

"Do you think he'll stick?" he asked. 

"Yes, he promised the old man he would, and if he's anything likeMalcolm, he'll eat fire before he'll break his word. Malcolm and me wecome to terms in ten words. The kid's to work three years for mewithout pay; then I'll marry him to my Joan. "

Mackenzie felt his blood come up hot, and sink down again, cold; felthis heart kick in one resentful surge, then fall away to weakness asif its cords had been cut. Tim laughed, looking down the draw towardthe sheep. 

"It's something like that Jacob and Laban deal you spoke about theother day, " said he. "Curious how things come around that way, ain'tit? There I went ridin' off, rakin' up my brains to remember thatstory, and laughed when it come to me all of a sudden. Jacob skinnedthem willow sticks, and skinned the old man, too. But I don't guessEarl would turn a trick like that on me, even if he could. "

"How about Joan? Does she agree to the terms?" Mackenzie could notforbear 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 fromhere and see the world, and this will be her chance. I don't object toher leavin', either, as long as it don't cost me anything. You goahead and stuff her, John; stuff her as full of learnin' as she'llhold. It'll be cheaper for me than sendin' her off to school andfittin' her up to be a rich man's wife, and you can do her just asmuch good--more, from what she tells me. You go right ahead and stuffher, John. "

"Huh!" said John. 

"Earl, he'll look after your sheep while you're teachin' Joan herbooks. Stuff her, but don't founder her, John. If any man can fit herup to prance in high society, I'd bet my last dollar you can. You're akind of a gentleman yourself, John. "

"Thanks, " said John, grinning a dry grin. 

"Yes, " reminiscently, with great satisfaction, "Malcolm made theproposition 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 saidmaybe he wouldn't want to hitch up with a sheepman's daughter that wasbrought up on the range. 'If he don't he can go to work and make hisown way--I'll not leave him a dam' cent!' says Malcolm. We shook handson it; he said he'd put it in his will. And that's cinched so it can'tslip. "

When Tim mounted to leave he looked round the range again with adrawing of trouble in his face, as if he searched the peacefullandscape for the shadow of wings. 

"I ain't got another sheep-wagon to give you right now, John; I guessyou'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'tfounder. "

"Stuff, " said John, but with an inflection that gave the word adifferent meaning, quite. 

CHAPTER XIII

A FIGHT ALMOST LOST

Dad Frazer was not overly friendly toward the young man from Omaha whohad come out to learn the sheep business under the threat of penaltiesand the promise of high rewards. He growled around about himcontinually when he and Mackenzie met, which was not very often, owingto their being several miles apart. Tim had stationed Dad and his bigband of sheep between Mackenzie and Joan, leaving the schoolmaster tohold the frontier. No matter for old man Reid's keenness to have hisson suffer some of the dangers which he had faced in his day, Timseemed to be holding the youth back out of harm's way, taking no riskson losing a good thing for the family. 

Reid had been on the range about two weeks, but Mackenzie had not seena great deal of him, owing to Tim's plan of keeping him out of thedisputed territory, especially at night. That the young man did notcare much for the company or instruction of Dad Frazer was plain. Twice he had asked Mackenzie to use his influence with Tim to bringabout a change from the old man's camp to his. In Mackenzie's silenceand severity the young man found something that he could notpenetrate, a story that he could not read. Perhaps it was with a viewto finding out what school Mackenzie had been seasoned in that Reidbent himself to win his friendship. 

Dad Frazer came over the hills to Mackenzie's range that afternoon, tostretch his legs, he said, although Mackenzie knew it was to stretchhis tongue, caring nothing for the miles that lay between. He had leftReid in charge of his flock, the young man being favored by Tim to theextent 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 agraveyard 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 heburied the boy in him long before his time. He's too sharp for hisyears; he's seen too much of the kind of life a young feller's betteroff 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 talklike 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 thatDad had read him aright. There was something of subtle knowledge, anedge of guile showing through his easy nature and desire to please, that was like acid on the teeth. Reid had the faculty of makinghimself agreeable, and he was an apt and willing hand, but back ofthis ingenuous appearance there seemed to be something elusive andshadowy, 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 towarm up to him as one man might to another in a place where humancompanionship is a luxury. When Reid sat with a cigarette in his thinlips--it was a wide mouth, worldly hard--hazy in abstraction andsmoke, there came a glaze over the clearness of his eyes, a look ofdead harshness, a cast of cunning. In such moments his true natureseemed to express itself unconsciously, and Dad Frazer, simple as hewas in many ways, was worldly man enough to penetrate the smoke, andsound the apprentice sheepman to his soul. 

Reid seemed to draw a good deal of amusement out of his situationunder Tim Sullivan. He was dependent on the flockmaster for hisclothing and keep, even tobacco and papers for his cigarettes. If heknew anything about the arrangement between his father and Sullivan inregard to Joan, he did not mention it. That he knew it, Mackenziefully believed, for Tim Sullivan was not the man to keep the rewardsequestered. 

Whether Reid looked toward Joan as adequate compensation for threeyears' exile in the sheeplands, there was no telling. Perhaps he didnot think much of her in comparison with the exotic plants of theatmosphere he had left; more than likely there was a girl in thebackground somewhere, around whom some of the old man's anxiety tosave the lad revolved. Mackenzie hoped to the deepest cranny of hisheart that it was so. 

"He seems to get a good deal of humor out of working here for hisboard and tobacco, " Mackenzie said. 

"Yes, he blatters a good deal about it, " said Dad. "'I'll takeanother biscuit on Tim Sullivan, ' he says, and 'here goes anothersmoke on Tim. ' I don't see where he's got any call to make a joke outof 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 onMackenzie for good. He worked up to it gradually, as if feeling hisway with his good foot ahead, careful not to be too sudden and plungeinto 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 layhis projec's for what he's a goin' to do. All I can do to put a wordin edgeways once in a while. "

It appeared plain enough that Dad's sore spot was this very inabilityto land as many words as he thought he had a right to. That is thecomplaint 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 friendsyou are the most interesting conversationalist he ever met. 

"I don't mind him, " Mackenzie said, knowing very well that Dad wouldsoon be so hungry for somebody to unload his words upon that he wouldbe talking to the sheep. "Ship him over to me when you're tired ofhim; 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'sbreakin' 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 unusualthey'll take up with a man after that. I used to be married to aIndian woman up on the Big Wind that was some hummer trainin'sheep-dogs. That woman could sell 'em for a hundred dollars apiece asfast as she could raise 'em and train 'em up, and them dad-splashedcollies 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 rubbedhis chin, eyes reflectively on the ground, stood silent a spell thatwas pretty long for him. "I hated like snakes to lose that woman--hername was Little Handful Of Rabbit Hair On A Rock. Ye-es. She was ahummer on sheep-dogs, all right. She took a swig too many out of myjug 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'sindifferent way of telling it. 

"Oh, it didn't hurt her much, " said Dad. "Scalded one side of her tillshe peeled off and turned white. I couldn't stand her after that. Youknow 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 apologyin his weather-beaten face. "She was a Crow, " he added, as if thatexplained 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 prettyhard deal, anyhow, Dad. "

"I never called her by her full name, " Dad reflected, passing over themoral 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 inplace of them you lost. Joan's a good little girl, but she can't traina 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' overtoday?"

"Tomorrow. "

"I don't guess you'll have her to bother with much longer--her andthat Reid boy they'll be hitchin' up one of these days from all thesigns. He skirmishes off over that way nearly every day. Looks to melike 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'sa millionaire. "

"I guess it would, " Mackenzie said, trying to keep his voice fromsounding as cold as his heart felt that moment. 

"Yes, I think they'll hitch. Well, I'd like to see Joan land a betterman than him. I don't like a man that can draw a blinder over his eyeslike 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 oneelement into another, so to speak; when he left the sheeplands in histhoughts 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'sold he wants 'em fat. It'd be a calamity if a man was to marry askinny 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 poundsmore on that girl and see how she'd look!"

"I can't imagine it, " said Mackenzie, not friendly to the notion atall. 

As Dad went back to unburden himself of his unwelcome companion, Mackenzie could not suppress the thought that a good many unworthynotions hatched beneath that dignified white hair. But surely Dadmight be excused by a more stringent moralist than the schoolmasterfor abandoning poor Rabbit after her complexion had suffered in thehog-scalding vat. 

Toward sundown Earl Reid came riding over, his winning smile as easyon his face as he was in the saddle. The days were doing him good, allaround, toughening his face, taking the poolroom pastiness out of it, putting a bracer in his back. Mackenzie noted the improvement asreadily as it could be seen in some quick-growing plant. 

Mackenzie was living a very primitive and satisfactory life under afew yards of tent canvas since the loss of his wagon. He stretched itover such bushes as came handy, storing his food beneath it when heslept, save on such nights as threatened showers. Reid applauded thisarrangement. He was tired of Dad Frazer's wagon, and the greasy bunkin it. 

"I've been wild to stretch out in a blanket with my feet to a littlefire, " he said, with a flash of the eagerness belonging to the boyhoodburied away too soon, as Dad had remarked. "Dad wouldn't let me doit--fussed at me three days because I sneaked out on him one night andlaid under the wagon. "

"Dad didn't want a skunk to bite you, I guess. He felt a heavyresponsibility on your account. "

"Old snoozer!" said Reid. 

Reid was uncommonly handy as a camp-cook, far better in that respectthan Mackenzie, who gladly turned the kitchen duties over to him andlet him have his way. After supper they sat talking, the lusty moonlifting a wondering face over the hills in genial placidity as ifsure, 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 insteadof tomorrow afternoon, " said Reid. 

"Thanks. "

Reid smoked in reflective silence, his thin face clear in themoonlight. 

"Some girl, " said he. "I don't see why she wants to go to all thistrouble to get a little education. That stuff's all bunk. I wish I hadthe coin in my jeans right now the old man spent on me, pourin'stuff into me that went right on through like smoke through ahandkerchief. "

"I don't think it would be that way with Joan, " Mackenzie said, hopingReid would drop the discussion there, and not go into the arrangementfor the future, which was a matter altogether detestable in theschoolmaster's thoughts. 

Reid did not pursue his speculations on Joan, whether through delicacyor indifference Mackenzie could not tell. He branched off into talk ofother things, through which the craving for the life he had left cameout in strong expressions of dissatisfaction with the range. Hecomplained against the penance his father had set, looking ahead withconsternation to the three years he must spend in those solitudes. 

"But I'm goin' to stick, " he said, an unmistakable determination inhis tone. "I'll show him they're making as good men now as they didwhen he was a kid. " He laughed, a raucous, short laugh, an old man'slaugh, 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 whenI sit in on the old man's money. "

No, Joan was not cast for any important part in young Reid's futuredrama, Mackenzie understood. As if his thoughts had penetrated to theyoung man's heart, making fatuous any further attempt at concealmentof 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 blanketand 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 onaccount of the new dogs showing a wolfish shyness of their new mastermost exasperating at times. Mackenzie's last thought was that Reidwould take a great deal of labor off his legs by using the horse inattending the sheep. 

A scream woke Mackenzie. He heaved up out of his sleep with confusionclouding his senses for the moment, the thought that he was on water, and the cry was that of one who drowned, persistent above hisstruggling reason. It was a choking cry, the utterance of a desperatesoul who sees life fleeing while he lifts his voice in the lastappeal. And between him and his companion Mackenzie saw the bulk of agiant-shouldered man, who bent with arm outstretched toward him, whosehand came in contact with his throat as he rose upright with the stareof confusion in his eyes. 

Mackenzie broke through this film of his numbing sleep, reaching forthe rifle that he had laid near his hand. It was gone, and across thetwo yards intervening he saw young Reid writhing in the grip of themonster who was strangling out his life. 

Mackenzie wrenched free from the great hand that closed about histhroat, tearing the mighty arm away with the strength of both his own. A moment, and he was involved in the most desperate struggle that hehad ever faced in his life. 

This interference gave Reid a new gulp of life. The three combatantswere on their feet now, not a word spoken, not a sound but the dullimpact of blows and the hard breathings of the two who fought thismonster of the sheeplands for their lives. Swan Carlson, Mackenziebelieved him to be, indulging his insane desire for strangling out thelives of men. He had approached so stealthily, with such wild cunning, that the dogs had given no alarm, and had taken the gun to insureagainst miscarriage or interruption in his horrible menu of death. 

A brief tangle of locked arms, swaying bodies, ribs all but crushed inthe embrace of those bestial arms, and Mackenzie was conscious that hewas fighting the battle alone. In the wild swirl of it he could notsee whether Reid had fallen or torn free. A little while, now in thepressure of those hairy, bare arms, now free for one gasping breath, fighting as man never fought in the sheeplands before that hour, andMackenzie felt himself snatched up bodily and thrown down fromuplifted arms with a force that must have ended all for him then butfor the interposition of a sage-clump that broke the fall. 

Instantly the silent monster was upon him. Mackenzie met him hand tohand, fighting the best fight that was in him, chilled with the beliefthat it was his last. But he could not come up from his knees, and inthis 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 snaphis spine. As the assassin tightened this terrible grip Mackenzie'sface was lifted toward the sky. Overhead was the moon, clear-edged, bright, in the dusk of the immensities beyond; behind the monster, whopaused that breath as in design to fill his victim's last moment witha hope that he soon would mock, Mackenzie saw young Reid. 

The youth was close upon the midnight strangler, stooping low. As theterrible pressure on forehead and neck cracked his spine like abreaking icicle, Mackenzie believed he shouted, putting into his voiceall that he felt of desperate need of help. And he saw young Reidstrike, and felt the breaking wrench of the cruel hands relax, andfell down upon the ground like a dead man and knew no more. 

Reid was there with the lantern, putting water on Mackenzie's headwhen he again broke through the mists and followed the thread of hissoul back to his body. Reid was encouraging him to be steady, and totake it easy, assuring him that he never saw a man put up such a fightas the schoolmaster had all but lost. 

Mackenzie sat up presently, with throbbing head, a feeling of bulgingin his eyeballs, his neck stiff from the wrenching it had received. The great body of the man whom he had fought lay stretched in themoonlight, face to the ground. The camp butcher knife was sticking inhis back. Mackenzie got to his feet, a dizziness over him, but a senseof 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 inanother second if you hadn't made that tackle. Who is he, do youknow?"

"Turn him over, " Mackenzie said. 

Reid withdrew the knife, sticking it into the ground with as littleconcern as if he had taken it from a butcher's block, and heaved thefellow over on his back. The moonlight revealed his dusty featuresclearly, 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'sname 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 deadsheep-killer's shirt, making a little whistling, reflective soundthrough his teeth. "I'll have to scour that knife before we cut baconwith it in the morning, " he said. 

CHAPTER XIV

THE LONESOMENESS

"He's got the lonesomeness, " said Dad, "and I tell you, John, whenthat gits a hold of a man he ain't responsible. It's the same asshuttin' a man up in jail to break him off of booze--say, he'll clawthe rocks out of the wall with his finger nails to git out where hecan take a snort. "

"I never had the lonesomeness, so I don't know, but there's somethingthe matter with the kid. "

"Yes, I see him tearin' around the country ridin' the head off of thathorse, never lookin' where he's goin' any more than a bat. He's beenclean over to Four Corners after the mail twice this week. A fellermust 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 thanbitten into his three years yet; he don't really know how theytaste. "

"It'll break him; he'll go all to pieces, I tell you John. When thelonesomeness takes a hold of a feller that way something pops in hishead after a while; then he either puts a bullet through his heart orsettles down and gits fat. That feller ain't got it in him to put onloco fat. "

Dad had slicked himself up pretty well that day before cutting acrossthe range for a chat with Mackenzie. His operations with thesheep-shears on his fuzzy whiskers had not been uniform, probably dueto the lack of a mirror. Dad trusted to the feel of it when he had nowater by to look into and guide his hand, and this time he had cutclose to the skin in several places, displaying his native colorbeneath the beard. But whatever he lacked in his chin-hedge he made upfor in careful arrangement of his truly beautiful hair. 

There was a sniff of perfume about him, a nosegay of wild flowerspinned in the pocket of his shirt. Mackenzie marveled over theserefinements in the old man's everyday appearance, but left it to hisown 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 thatfeller, I guess. But it ain't good for a man like him to start outkillin'; 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 fellerthat was lookin' for my skelp, and I'd go a thousand before I'd crowda fight. I never was much on the fight, and runnin' sheep took whatlittle was in me out a long time ago. "

Dad got out his red box of corn-husk cigarettes, offering it silentlyto Mackenzie, who shook his head, knowing very well that Dad did it toobserve conventions rather than out of a desire to have him helphimself. The stock of Mexican smokes was running low; Dad had spokenof it only the day before, and his feet were itching for the road tothe 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 takensecond place, his reputation as a fighting man in the sheeplands hadpaled almost to nothing, after Reid's swift-handed dealing with MattHall. The fame of his exploit ran through the country, fixing hisplace in it at once, for Matt Hall was known as a man who had thestrength of seven in his long, gorilla arms. 

Hector Hall, brother of the slain man, seemed to accept the tragedywith a sorrowful resignation in which no shadow of revenge appeared. He let it be known that Matt had been irresponsible at times, given tonight-prowlings and outbreaks of violence of strange and fantasticforms. How much truth there was in this excuse for the dead man, Hector alone knew. But no matter for his passivity, Mackenzie did nottrust him. He made a requisition on Tim Sullivan at once for revolversfor himself and Reid, which Tim delegated the young man to go to FourCorners and buy. 

"Well, I come over to see if you'll lend Reid to me three or four dayswhile I make a trip to town, " said Dad. "I've got a little businessover 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, gettingmarried?"

"Kind of arrangin', John, kind of arrangin'. There's a widow-lady overat Four Corners I used to rush that needs a man to help her with hersheep. A man might as well marry a sheep ranch as work on one, Ireckon. "

"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, buthe'll be back for dinner. "

Dad went away well satisfied and full of cheer, Mackenzie marvelingover his marital complexities as he watched him go. Together withRabbit, and the Mexican woman down El Paso way whom John hadmentioned, but of whom Dad never had spoken, and no telling how manymore scattered around the country, Dad seemed to be laying thegroundwork for a lively roundup one of his days. He said he'd beenmarrying women off and on for forty years. His easy plan seemed to bejust to take one that pleased his capricious temper wherever he foundher, without regard to former obligations. 

Mackenzie grinned. He did not believe any man was so obscure as to beable to escape many wives. Dad seemed to be a dry-land sailor, with awife in every town he ever had made in his life. Mackenzie understoodabout Mexican marriages. If they were priest marriages, they werecounted good; if they were merely justice of the peace ones they weresubject to wide and elastic infringement on both sides. ProbablyIndian marriages were similar. Surely Dad was old enough to know whathe was about. 

Reid came to camp at noontime, and prepared dinner in his quick andhandy way. Mackenzie did not take up the question of his acting asrelief for Dad while the old scout went off to push his arrangementsfor marrying a sheep ranch, seeing that Reid was depressed anddown-spirited and in no pleasant mood. 

They were almost independent of the camp-mover, owing to their lightequipment, which they could carry with them from day to day as thesheep ranged. Supplies were all they needed from the wagon, which camearound to them twice a week. After dinner Reid began packing up forthe 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 inthe 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 almostto the bridge of his nose, scowling out over the sheep range as if hewould curse it to a greater barrenness. 

"Three years of this, and what'll I be? Hell! I can't even find thatother Hall. "

"Have you been out looking for him?"

"That big Swede over there was tellin' me he's put me down in his bookfor a killin'. I thought I'd give him a chance to get it over with ifhe meant it. "

"Has Carlson been over?"

"No, I rode over there the other evening. Say, is that the woman youfound chained up when you struck this country?"

"She's the one. "

Mackenzie looked at Reid curiously as he answered. There was somethingof quick eagerness in the young man's inquiry, a sudden light of a newinterest in his face, in sharp contrast with the black mood of amoment before. 

"She looks like an Ibsen heroine, " said Reid. "Take that woman out ofthis 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 aroundin suggestive movement. 

Mackenzie dropped the matter without more words, seeing too plainlythe 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 forReid. 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 romantictimes, Mackenzie felt that he was lucky he had come too late to shareit. His own affair with Swan Carlson had been sordid enough, but thisunlucky embroilment in which Reid had killed a man was a plainmisfortune 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 alittle nearer Joan. "

This he added as with studied sneer, his face flushing darkly, histhin mouth twisted in an ugly grin. 

Mackenzie passed it, but not without the hurt of the unkind stabshowing 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'smurderous hands, Mackenzie had withdrawn even his most remote hope inregard to Joan. Before that he had spun his thread of dreams, quitehonestly, 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 andpupil, trying to convince himself that it was better in the end forJoan. Reid had all the advantage of him in prospects; he could lift upthe curtain on his day and show Joan the splendors of a world that aschoolmaster could point out only from afar. Mackenzie seemed toignore 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, " saidReid. He turned to Mackenzie, pushing his hat back from his forehead, letting the sun on his savagely knotted face. "I haven't got money tosend a telegram, not even a special delivery letter! Look at me! Amillionaire's son and sole heir, up against a proposition like thisfor three years!"

Mackenzie let him sweat it out, offering neither water for his thirstnor wood for his fire. Reid sat in surly silence, running his thumbalong his cartridge belt. 

"A man's friends forget him out here, " he complained; "he's the sameto them as dead. "

"It's the way everywhere when a man wants to borrow money, " Mackenzietold him, not without the shade of a sneer. 

"I've let them have enough in my time that they could afford to comeacross 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 andscorn. "A man's prospects don't look very good back home when a bunchof 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 youthan as many days, if you get--interested. "

Reid exclaimed impatiently, dismissing such assurance with a testygesture. 

"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, takingthe proposal in the jesting spirit that he supposed it was given. 

"On the dead, Mackenzie--I mean it. Will you give me a thousanddollars 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 toldhim, 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, histemper 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, sayingno more. He made a pack on his saddle of the camp outfit, and startedoff along the ridge, leaving Mackenzie to follow as he pleased. A mileor more along Reid pitched upon a suitable camping place. He hadhimself established long before Mackenzie came to where he sat smokingamid his gloomy, impatient thoughts. 

"I'm not going over to relieve that old skunk, " Reid announced, "notwithout orders from Sullivan. If he gets off you'll have to relievehim yourself. I don't want that Hall guy to get it into his nut thatI'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 muchlonger to stay, " said Reid, his mean leer creeping into his wide, thinlips again. 

Mackenzie turned slowly to look him squarely in the eyes. He stood soa 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 hiscalm voice. 

Reid jerked his hip in his peculiar twisting movement to shift hispistol belt, turned, and walked away. 

If it was the lonesomeness, Mackenzie thought, it was taking a mightypeculiar turn in that fellow. He was more like a cub that wasbeginning to find itself, and bristle and snarl and turn to bite thehand that had fended it through its helpless stage. Perhaps it wouldpass in a little while, or perhaps it would get worse on him. In thelatter case there would be no living on the range with Reid, for onthe range Mackenzie believed Reid was destined to remain. He had beentrying to borrow money to get away, with what view in his dissatisfiedhead 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 himin his time of penance and disgrace. 

Mackenzie put off his start to Dad's camp until dusk, knowing the oldman 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 tomake a figure in before the widow-lady upon whom he had anchored hisvariable heart. 

Reid was bringing in the sheep when Mackenzie left, too far away for aword. Mackenzie thought of going down to him, for he disliked to partwith anything like a shadow between them, feeling that he owed Reid agreat debt indeed. More than that, he liked the kid, for there seemedto 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 thoughtpersisting in him that he would, indeed, be thirty minutes nearerJoan. And it was a thought that made his heart jump and a gladnessburn 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 camphe stopped suddenly, his breath held to listen. Over the calm, far-carrying silence of the early night there came the sound of awoman 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 havingheard 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 groundas 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 dreamyspeculation as her teacher explained something that she found hard, against her wonted aptness, to understand. When the rather disjointedlesson came to an end Joan sighed, strapping her books in a way thatseemed to tell that she was weary of them. 

"Do you still think you'll stick to the sheep business, John?" sheasked, not lifting her eyes to his face, all out of her frank andearnest way of questioning. 

"I'm only on probation, you know, Joan; something might happen betweennow and this time next year to change things all around. There's achance, anyhow, that I may not make good. "

"No, nothing will ever happen to change it, " said Joan, shaking herhead sadly. "Nothing that ought to happen ever happens here. I don'tknow 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 anyshort 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 mandon't have to have money to strike out and see the world--I don't seewhy 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 andsituation that I hope you'll never feel. Wait a little while longerwith the probationers among the sheep. "

"Earl never will stay it out, " she said, lifting her eyes for a momentto his. "He's sick of it now--he'd throw everything over if he had themoney to get away. "

"He'd be a very foolish young man, then. But it's like breaking offsmoking, I guess, to quit the things you've grown up with on shortnotice like he had. "

"Maybe in about a year more my interest will amount to enough to letme out, " said Joan, pursuing her thought of winning to freedom in theway she had elected. She seemed innocent of any knowledge of thearrangement whereby Earl Reid was working for his reward. Mackenziewondered 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 toturn me down, though, if I want to quit before my time's up. And hewouldn'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'sfather. It would be like Tim, indeed, to bargain her off withoutconsidering her in the matter at all. To a man like Tim his sons anddaughters were as much his chattels as his sheep, kind as he was inhis way. The apprenticeship of Joan to the range was proof of that. Somewhere out in that gray loneliness two younger daughters wererunning sheep, with little brothers as protectors and companions, beginning their adventures and lessons in the only school they wereever likely to know. 

Tim made a great virtue of the fact that he had taught all of them toread and write. That much would serve most of them satisfactorily fora few years, but Mackenzie grinned his dry grin to himself when hethought of the noise there would be one day in Tim Sullivan's cotewhen the young pigeons shook out their wings to fly away. It was inthe 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, lookingup with lively eyes. 

"Has it come already?"

"Charley got it yesterday. I found that story about Jacob and Racheland 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, hereyes far away on the elusive, ever-receding blue curtain that was downbetween her and the world. 

"Yes, it tells a lot, " she sighed. "But Jake must not have been verybright. 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 ofher hard years was in Joan's voice, the hardness of unforgiving regretfor 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 breakher bondage to sheep; Tim Sullivan had been bringing her up, unconsciously, but none the less effectively, to fit into this schemefor marrying her to his old friend's rakish son. When the day came forJoan to know of the arrangement, she would leap toward it as toward anopen door. 

Still, it should not concern him. Once he had believed there was abudding blossom on his hitherto dry branch of romance; if he had beenso ungenerous as to take advantage of Joan's loneliness and urge thepromise to florescence, they might have been riding down out of thesheeplands together that day. 

It would have been a venture, too, he admitted. For contact with theworld of men must prove a woman, even as the hardships of the rangemust prove a man. Perhaps the unlimited variety displayed before hereyes would have made Joan dissatisfied with her plain choice. 

At that moment it came to him that perhaps Joan was to be tested andproved here, even as he was being tested in Tim Sullivan's balance forhis fitness to become a master over sheep. Here were two fair samplesof men out of the world's assorted stock--himself and Reid. One ofthem, deliberate, calm, assured of his way, but with little in hishand; 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 witha sweet savor of full understanding and appreciation as they were won. Many of them most desired might never be attained; many more might betouched and withdrawn in the mockery that fate practices soheartlessly upon men. Reid could convey her at once over the roughsummits which men and women wear their hearts threadbare to attain. With Reid the journey would begin where, with the best hoping, it mustin his own company almost end. 

"It was unlucky for Earl that he killed Matt Hall, " said Joan, takingup another thread of thought in her discursive, unfixed humor of thatday. 

"It's unfortunate for any man to have to kill another, I guess. But ithas to be done sometimes. "

"Matt deserved it, all right--he ought have been killed for his meanface long ago--but it's turned Earl's head, haven't you noticed? Hethinks he's got one foot on each side of this range, herdin' everybodybetween 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 beginto blow. If he's a fair sample of what they've got in Omaha, I'llcross 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 ofthem in derogation of Reid his heart jumped, seeming to move him byits tremendous vibration a little nearer to her. He felt that it wastraitorous exultation at the expense of one who had befriended him toa limit beyond which it is hard for a man to go, but he could notdrown the exhilaration of a reborn hope in even the deepest waters ofhis gratitude. 

Somebody ought to tell Joan what they had designed for her in companywith 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 wholive nearest to nature are the most apt in reading all her works. 

"He'll never stay here through a winter, " Joan predicted, withcertainty that admitted no argument. "Give him a touch of twenty-twobelow, and a snow on a high wind, and send him out to bed down thesheep where it'll blow over them! I can see him right now. You'll doit, all right, and I'll have to, like I have done many a time. Butwe're not like Earl. Earl's got summer blood. "

Mackenzie took her hand, feeling it tremble a little, seeing her facegrow pale. The sun was red on the hill, the sheep were throwing longshadows down the slope as they grazed lazily, some of them standing onknees to crop the lush bunch grass. 

"Yes, Joan, you and I are of different blood, " he said. "We are of theblood of the lonesome places, and we'll turn back to them always fromour wandering and seeking contentment among the press of men. He can'thave you--Earl Reid can't have you--ever in this world!"

So it was out, and from his own mouth, and all his reserve wasnothing, and his silent pledging but as an idle word. Joan was lookingat 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'swhere it gripped her fingers so hard that Earl Reid might have been onthe 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 ofgolden brown in Joan's eyes, like flakes of metal from her rich hair. They seemed to increase, and to sparkle like jewels struck throughplacid 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 atme 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 haveyou, not even if he comes into two million when the old man dies. "

"No, " said Joan softly, her hand stroking his, her eyes downcast, theglow of the new-old dawn upon her cheek; "there's only room for oneJacob on this range. "

"I thought I owed it to Reid, as a matter of honor between men, tostep aside and let him have you, according to the plan. But that was amistake. 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 histelltale blood flare red in his face, but grinned a little as heturned 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 owehim anything then--that was before he came. "

"I respected you too much to take advantage of your coming to me thatway for your lessons day by day, Joan. I had to fight to keep itback. "

"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 faceaway. 

"I'd never want to do anything, or say anything, that would lower yourrespect for me one little degree, Joan, " he said, still clinging toher hand as though he feared he had not quite won her, and must holdher fast by his side for the final word. 

"I know you wouldn't, John, " said she, her voice shaking a little, andlow beneath her breath. 

"I wouldn't want to--to--go as far as Jacob went that first time hesaw Rachel, " said he in desperation, his grip tightening on herfingers, 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, withyearning lips, a flutter in her heart that made her weak. She nodded, anxious to help him to his climax, but not bold, not bolder thanhimself, indeed, and he was shaking like a sick man in the sun. 

"Unless I could make it holy, unless you could understand it so, Iwouldn't even--I wouldn't so much as----" He took her face between hishands, and bent over her, and a glad little sob trembled betweenJoan's lips as she rested her hands on his shoulders for thebenediction of his kiss. 

Joan did not stay to help him bring in the sheep that day, for therewas nothing left for her to wonder over, or stand wistfully by hersaddle waiting to receive. Neither was there any sound of weeping asshe rode up the hill, for the male custom of expressing joy in thatway had gone out of fashion on the sheep ranges of this world longbefore John Mackenzie's day. 

Nothing that he could owe a man could equal what he had gained thathour, Mackenzie thought, standing there with heart as light as thedown of cottonwood. With his great debt paid to Earl Reid, even tothe measure of his own life, he would still leave the world a richman. He had come into the fresh pastures of romance at last. 

Joan waved him good-bye from the hilltop and went on, the understandingof his fortune growing on him as he recalled her eyes in that momentwhen she closed them to his salute upon her lips. She gave up thatfirst kiss that she ever had yielded to any man as though he hadreached down and plucked it out of her heart. 

Let them go on planning for years of labor, let them go on schemingfor inheritances, and piece their broken arrangements together as theymight when they found he had swept Joan out of their squalidcalculations as a rider stoops and lifts a kerchief from the ground. There would be bitterness and protestations, and rifts in his ownbright hopes, as well. 

But if Tim Sullivan would not give her up to him with the good graceof a man, Mackenzie said, smiling and smiling like a daft musician, hewould take her from both of them and ride away with her into thevalleys of the world which she was so hungry in her young heart tobehold. 

He rounded his sheep to their hillside, and made his fire, a song inhis heart, but his lips sealed, for he was a silent man. And at duskthere 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 ashe halted and gave the shepherd good evening. Mackenzie invited himdown to the hospitality of the camp, which the stranger accepted withhearty grace. 

"I was lookin' for a young feller by the name of Reid; you're not theman, " the stranger said with finality, after one more shrewd look intoMackenzie's face. 

"My name's Mackenzie--Reid's running a band of sheep for the sameoutfit about five miles east of here. "

The stranger said nothing more, being busy at that moment unsaddlinghis horse, which he hobbled and turned to graze. He came over to thefire where Mackenzie was baking biscuits in a tilted pan, and satdown, dusty from his day's ride. 

"I'm the sheriff of this county, " he announced, not going into thedetail of his name. Mackenzie nodded his acknowledgment, the sheriffkeeping his hungry eye on the pan. "I took a cut across here fromservin' some subpoenas in a murder case on some fellers up on FarewellCreek, " he explained, "to see how that feller Reid's behavin'. "

"I haven't heard any complaint, " Mackenzie told him, wondering whythis official interest. The sheriff seemed satisfied with what heheard, and made no further inquiry or explanation until after he hadeaten his supper. As he smoked a cracked cigar which he took from thepocket of his ornate vest, he talked. 

"I didn't know anything about that boy when Sullivan put him in hereon the range, " he said, "but the other day I got a letter from thesheriff in Omaha askin' me to keep my eye on him. The news of Reid'skillin' Matt Hall got over to Omaha. You know Reid, he's undersentence 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, thesheriff in Omaha said. Sent me his full history, three pages. Marriedsomebody a year or so ago, but the old man got him out of that bybuyin' off the girl. Then he started out forgin', and pushed it sohard the old man refused to make good any more. But he didn't want tosee the kid go to the pen, and he's here. I got to keep my eye on himto see he don't break over. "

The sheriff stretched out when he had finished his cigar and went tosleep in a blanket provided by his host. He was up with dawn, ready toresume his journey. Mackenzie pressed him to stay for breakfast, buthe said he wanted to make a start before the sun and reach Sullivan'sranch-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 thatfeller, 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 upto Sullivan, he's responsible for Reid. "

The sheriff turned a sharp look of suspicion on Mackenzie, but saidnothing. He led his horse down to the little stream for water, andcame 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 andclean 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. Mackenziesaw him blend into the gloom of early morning with a feeling ofself-felicitation on his act of yesterday. He was inspired yesterdaywhen he took Joan under his protection and laid claim to her in hisown right. 

CHAPTER XVI

REID BEGINS HIS PLAY

Dad Frazer came back after five days, diminished in facial outline onaccount of having submitted his stubble beard to the barber at FourCorners. In reverse of all speculation on Mackenzie's part, thisoperation did not improve the old man's appearance. Dad's face was oneof the kind that are built to carry a beard; without it his weaknesseswere 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, fullof satisfaction for his business stroke. "I aim to settle down andquit 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'vehad 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, sheain't what you might call stylish, I guess, but she's all right forme. 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 rightin a woman, but that ain't all a man needs to make him easy in hismind. Well, she did lose the sight of her left eye when she was agirl, but she can see a dollar with the other one further than I cansee 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 awoman likes to pack around in hot weather. I don't mind that; youknow, 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, itwouldn't show so much on her--she can walk under my arm. But it'ssurprisin' how that woman can git around after them sheep!"

Dad added this hopefully, as if bound to append some redeeming traitto all her physical defects. 

"How many does she own?"

"About four thousand. Not much of a band, but a lot more than I evercould lay claim to. She's got a twelve-thousand acre ranch, owns everyfoot of it, more than half of it under fence. What do you think ofthat? Under fence! Runs them sheep right inside of that bull-wirefence, John, where no wolf can't git at 'em. There ain't no bears downin that part of the country. Safe? Safer'n money in the bank, and noexpense 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, ora 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'tthe kind you young fellers want, and the old ones is most generallymarried off or in the soldiers' home. Well, she's got a little crossof Indian and Mexican in her, anyway; that kind of keeps 'em away, youknow. "

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 amile. Mackenzie had seen that cross of Mexican and Indian blood, witha dash of debased white. They were not the kind that attracted menoutside their own mixed breed, but he hadn't a doubt that this one wasplenty 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 pathduring the forty years of his taking in marriage one month and takingleave the next. Dad wasn't nervous over his prospects, but calm andcalculative, as became his age. Mackenzie went smiling now and then ashe thought of the team the black nondescript and the old fellow wouldmake. 

He found Reid sitting on a hilltop with his face in his hands, surlyand out of sorts, his revolver and belt on the ground beside him as ifhe had grown weary of their weight. He gave a short return toMackenzie's unaffected greeting and interested inquiry into theconduct of the sheep and the dogs during his absence. 

Reid's eyes were shot with inflamed veins, as if he had been sittingall night beside a smoky fire. When Mackenzie sat near him the windbore the pollution of whisky from his breath. Reid made a show ofbeing at his ease, although the veins in his temples were swollen inthe stress of what must have been a splitting headache. He rolled acigarette with nonchalance almost challenging, and smoked in silence, the corners of his wide, salamander mouth drawn down in a peculiarscoffing. 

"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 hebuckled it on. 

"Well, you keep out of it, you damned pedagogue!" Reid said, the wordsbursting from him in vehement passion. "This is my game; I'll play itwithout any more of your interference. You've gone far enough withher--you've gone too far! Drop it; let her alone. "

Mackenzie got up. Reid stood facing him, his color gone now, his facegray. 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 ownconclusions. His face flushed a little at the sting of contempt thatMackenzie put into his words. He fumbled for a match to light his stubof cigarette before he spoke:

"I played into your hands when I let you go over there, and you knewI'd play into them when you proposed it. But that won't happentwice. "

"I'll not allow any man to put a deliberately false construction on mymotives, Reid, " Mackenzie told him, hotly. "I didn't propose goingover 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 yourbelly like a snake behind a bush to spy on Joan and me, and I guessyou've been doing it, all right--you're welcome to all you've foundout. There aren't any secrets between Joan and me to keep fromanybody'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 couldhave done it fifteen minutes after I saw her the first time. "

If Reid hoped to provoke a quarrel leading up to an excuse for makinguse of the gun for which his hand seemed to itch, he fell short of hiscalculations. Mackenzie only laughed, lightly, happily, in the way ofa 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. Therewon't be room on this range for you and me, Mackenzie, unless you stepback in your schoolteacher's place, and lie down like a little lamb. "

"It's a pretty big range, " Mackenzie said, as if he considered itseriously; "I guess you can shift whenever the notion takes you. Youmight take a little vacation of about three years back in a certainstate concern in Nebraska. "

"Let that drop--keep your hands off of that! You don't know anythingabout that little matter; that damned sheriff don't know anythingabout it. If Sullivan's satisfied to have me here and give me hisgirl, that's enough for you. "

"You don't want Joan, " said Mackenzie, speaking slowly, "you only wantwhat's conditioned on taking her. So you'd just as well make arevision in your plans right now, Reid. You and Sullivan can gettogether on it and do what you please, but Joan must be left out ofyour calculations. I realize that I owe you a good deal, but I'm notgoing to turn Joan over to you to square the debt. You can have mymoney any day you want it--you can have my life if you ever have todraw 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 earnestnessthat 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 feltcertain, drinking the night out with him in his camp. Carlson had anotoriety for his addiction to drink, along with his other unsavorytraits. With Reid going off in two different directions from him, Mackenzie saw trouble ahead between them growing fast. More thanlikely one of them would have to leave the range to avoid a clash atno distant day, for Reid was in an ugly mood. Loneliness, liquor, discontent, native meanness, and a desire to add to the fame in thesheep country that the killing of Matt Hall had brought him, wouldwhirl 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 hisunhappy end. There was something coming to him on that account which aman could not repudiate or ignore. Whatever might rise between them, Mackenzie would owe his life to Reid. Given the opportunity, he stoodready and anxious to square the debt by a like service, and betweenmen a thing like that could not be paid in any other way. 

Reid remained a while sitting on the hilltop where Mackenzie had foundhim, face in his hands, as before. After a time he stretched out andwent to sleep, the ardent sun of noonday frying the lees of SwanCarlson's whisky out of him. Toward three o'clock he roused, got hishorse, saddled it, and rode away. 

Mackenzie believed he was going to hunt more whisky, and went to therise of a ridge to see what course he took. But instead of strikingfor Carlson's, Reid laid a course for Sullivan's ranch-house. Going toTim with a complaint against him, Mackenzie judged, contempt for hissmallness rising in him. Let him go. 

Tim Sullivan might give him half his sheep if he liked him wellenough, but he could not give him Joan. 

CHAPTER XVII

HERTHA CARLSON

Swan Carlson or his woman was running a band of sheep very close tothe border of Tim Sullivan's lease. All afternoon Mackenzie had heardthe plaint of lambs; they had lifted their wavering chorus all duringJoan's lesson, giving her great concern that Carlson designedattempting a trespass on her father's land. 

Joan had come shortly after Reid's unexplained departure, and had goneback to her flock again uninformed of Reid's criminal career. Mackenzie felt that he did not need the record of his rival to holdJoan out of his hands. The world had changed around for him amazinglyin the past few days. Where the sheeplands had promised little for himbut 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 intothe fields of romance as he went to the top of the hill at sunset tosee what Swan Carlson was about. Over in the next valley there spreada handful of sheep, which the shepherd was ranging back to camp. Mackenzie could not make sure at that distance whether the keeper waswoman or man. 

Reid had not returned when Mackenzie plodded into camp at dusk. Hisabsence was more welcome, in truth, than his company; Mackenzie hopedhe would sulk a long time and stay away until he got his course inthe sheep country plainly before his eyes. If he stayed his threeyears there it would be on account of sheep, and whatever he might winin his father's good graces by his fidelity. Joan was not to figurethenceforward in any of his schemes. 

Three years on the sheep range with no prospect of Joan! That was whatReid had ahead of him now. 

"I think I'd take mine in the pen, " Mackenzie said, leaning back tocomfort with his pipe. Night came down; the dogs lay at his feet, noses on forepaws. Below him the sheep were still. So, for a longtime, submerged in dreams. 

One of the dogs lifted its head, its bristles rising, a low growl inits throat. The other rose cautiously, walking away crouching, withhigh-lifted feet. Mackenzie listened, catching no noise to account fortheir alarm. A little while, and the sound of Hertha Carlson's singingrose from the hill behind him, her song the same, the doleful qualityof 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 herto repeat, as he had heard her the night her singing guided him to hermelancholy door. A little nearer now the song sounded, the notesbroken as if the singer walked, stumbling at times, so much sadness init, so much longing, such unutterable hopelessness as to wring thelistener's heart. 

Swan was beating her again, neglecting her, subjecting her to thecruelties of his savage mind; there was no need for the woman to comenearer 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 thateloquent expression of pain. Perhaps she was wandering in the nightnow for the solace of weariness, pouring out the three lines of hersong in what seemed the bitterness of accusation for a promiseunfulfilled. 

The dogs came back to Mackenzie's side, where they sat with earslifted, but with no expression of hostility or alarm in their bearingnow. They were only curious, as their master was curious, waiting tosee if the wandering singer would come on into camp. 

There was no glow of lantern to guide her, and no moon, but she camestraight 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 hadready to hand. Mrs. Carlson hesitated, drawing back a little when shesaw 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 theblow you gave Swan that night. "

"As long as Swan was good to you, " said he, "of course you would. Howdo you feel about it now?"

"I only cry now because he did not die. He was different a littlewhile after he got well, but again he forgets. He beats me; he leavesme alone with the sheep. "

"I knew he was beating you again, " Mackenzie nodded, confirming hisspeculation of a little while before. 

"Sheep!" said she. "Swan thinks only of sheep; he is worse since hebought Hall's flock. It is more than I can endure!"

Mrs. Carlson was worried and worn, fast losing all she had gained inflesh and color during Swan's period of kindness when she had thrownherself into his wild ways and ridden the range like a fighting womanat his side. Much of her comeliness remained in her sad face andgreat, luminous, appealing eyes, for it was the comeliness ofmelancholy which sorrow and hard usage refined. She would carry hergrace with her, and the pale shred of her youthful beauty, down to thelast hard day. But it was something that Swan was insensible to; itcould not soften his hand toward her, nor bend his wild thoughts togentleness. Now he had denied her again the little share he hadgranted 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 hegoing 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 thanhere. 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 theseed of it, money springs. Money is a disease that he spreads when hewalks, like the scales that fall from a leper. Money! I pray God nightand day that a plague will sweep away his flocks, that a thief willfind his hiding place, that a fire will burn the bank that locks inhis gold, and make him poor. Poor, he would be kind. A man's proudheart bends down when he is poor. "

"God help you!" said Mackenzie, pitying her from the well of histender heart. 

"God is deaf; he cannot hear!" she said, bitter, hopeless, yetrebellious against the silence of heaven and earth that she could notpenetrate 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 tohim in a sorrow that would move a stone on the mountain-side, but Godhas not heard. Yes, it must be that this land is a vacuum, such as Iread of when I was a girl in school. Maybe--" looking up with eagerhopefulness--"if I go out of it a little way, just on the edge of itand pray, God will be able to hear my voice?"

"Here, as well as anywhere, " he said, moved by her strange fancy, bythe 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. "Iwill pray no more, no more!" she cried. "I will curse God, I willcurse him as Job cursed him, and fling myself from the rocks anddie!"

Mackenzie was on his feet beside her, his hand on her shoulder as ifhe would stay her mad intention. 

"No, no!" he said, shocked by the boldness of her declaration. "Yourtroubles are hard enough to bear--don't thicken them with talk likethis. "

She looked at him blankly, as if she did not comprehend, as though herreason had spent itself in this rebellious outbreak against the unseenforces 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 mefree. "

Mrs. Carlson sat again near the lantern, curling her legs beneath herwith 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 amongthe 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 notfight. No. "

"No, " he echoed, abstractedly, making a mental picture of Carlson andHall beside the sheep-wagon, the light of a lantern on their faces, cards in their fists, a jug of whisky in the middle ground withinreach from either hand. It was such diversion as Swan Carlson wouldenjoy, the night around him as black as the shadows of his own deadsoul. 

"Earl did not come to me this night, " she said, complaining in sadnote. "He promised he would come. "

"Has he been going over there to see you?" Mackenzie asked, resentfulof 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 alie in his eyes. "

"You're right about that, " Mackenzie said, letting go a sigh ofrelief. 

"He tries to flatter me to tell him where Swan hides the money hebrought from the bank, " she said, slowly, wearily, "but him I do nottrust. 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 frightenedgirl. "

"You'd better tell him to stay away, " Mackenzie counseled, his voicestern and hard. 

"But you would not do that, " she continued, heedless of hisadmonition. She leaned toward him, her great eyes shining in thelight, her face eager in its sorrowful comeliness; she put out herhand and touched his arm. 

"You are a brave man, you would not turn white and go away into thenight like a wolf to hear me speak of that. Hush! hush! No, no--thereis 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 tragedyher attitude suggested. 

"Hush!" she whispered, hand to her mouth. And again, leaning andpeering: "Hush!" She raised her face to him, a great eagerness in herburning eyes. "Kill him, kill Swan Carlson, kind young man, and set mefree again! You have no woman? I will be your woman. Kill him, andtake me away!"

"You don't have to kill Swan to get away from him, " he told her, thetragedy dying out of the moment, leaving only pity in its place. "Youcan go on tonight--you never need to go back. "

Hertha came nearer, scrambling to him with sudden movement on herknees, put her arm about his neck before he could read her intentionor repel her, and whispered in his ear:

"I know where Swan hides the money--I can lead you to the place. Killhim, good man, and we will take it and go far away from this unhappyland. I will be your woman, faithful and true. "

"I couldn't do that, " he said gently, as if to humor her; "I couldn'tleave my sheep. "

"Sheep, sheep!" said she, bitterly. "It is all in the world men thinkof in this land--sheep! A woman is nothing to them when there aresheep! Swan forgets, sheep make him forget. If he had no sheep, hewould 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 atorchlight a moment before bounding away. 

"Swan forgets, Swan forgets!" she murmured, her staring eyes on thelight. She rocked herself from side to side, and "Swan forgets, Swanforgets!" she murmured, like the burden of a lullaby. 

"Where is your camp?" Mackenzie asked her, thinking he must take herhome. 

Hertha did not reply. For a long time she sat leaning, staring at thelantern. One of the dogs approached her, bristles raised in fear, creeping with stealthy movement, feet lifted high, stretched its neckto sniff her, fearfully, backed away, and composed itself to rest. Butnow and again it lifted its head to sniff the scent that came fromthis strange being, and which it could not analyze for good or ill. Mackenzie marked its troubled perplexity, almost as much at sea in hisown reckoning of her as the dog. 

"No, I could not show you the money and go away with you leaving Swanliving behind, " she said at last, as if she had decided it finally inher mind. "That I have told Earl Reid. Swan would follow me to theedge of the world; he would strangle my neck between his hands andthrow me down dead at his feet. "

"He'd have a right to if you did him that kind of a trick, " Mackenziesaid. 

"Earl Reid comes with promises, " she said, unmindful of Mackenzie; "hesits close by me in the dark, he holds me by the hand. But kiss me Iwill not permit; that yet belongs to Swan. " She looked up, sweepingMackenzie with her appealing eyes. "But if you would kill him, thenmy lips would be hot for your kiss, brave man--I would bend down anddraw 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 hearany more of it. "

Hertha sat looking at him, that cast of dull hopelessness in her faceagain, 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 pressedagainst my heart. "

"You'd better go back to your wagon, " he suggested, getting to hisfeet. 

"There is no wagon, only a canvas spread over the brushes, where I lielike a wolf in a hollow. A beast I am become, among the beasts of thefield!"

"Come--I'll go with you, " he offered, holding out his hand to lifther. 

She did not seem to notice him, but sat stroking her face as if toease a pain out of it, or open the fount of her tears which muchweeping must have drained long, long ago. 

Mackenzie believed she was going insane, in the slow-preying, broodingway of those who are not strong enough to withstand the cruelties ofsilence 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 cruelburden 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 awoman. "

"Will Swan be over tomorrow?" Mackenzie asked, thinking to take hercase up with the harsh and savage man and see if he could not be movedto sending her away. 

"I do not know, " she returned coldly, her manner changing like acapricious wind. She rose as she spoke, and walked away, disappearingalmost at once in the darkness. 

Mackenzie stood looking the way she went, listening for the sound ofher going, but she passed so surely among the shrubs and over theuneven ground that no noise attended her. It was as though her failingmind had sharpened her with animal caution, or that instinct had comeforward in her to take the place of wit, and serve as her protectionagainst dangers which her faculties might no longer safeguard. 

Even the dogs seemed to know of her affliction, as wild beasts arebelieved by some to know and accept on a common plane the dementedamong men. They knew at once that she was not going to harm the sheep. When she left camp they stretched themselves with contented sighs totheir repose. 

And that was "the lonesomeness" as they spoke of it there. A dreadfulaffliction, a corrosive poison that gnawed the heart hollow, for whichthere was no cure but comradeship or flight. Poor Hertha Carlson wasdenied both remedies; she would break in a little while now, and runmad over the hills, her beautiful hair streaming in the wind. 

And Reid had it; already it had struck deep into his soul, turning himmorose, wickedly vindictive, making him hungry with an unholy ambitionto slay. Joan must have suffered from the same disorder. It was not somuch a desire in her to see what lay beyond the blue curtain of thehills as a longing for companionship among them. 

But Joan would put away her unrest; she had found a cure for thelonesomeness. Her last word to him that day was that she did not wantto 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 sheepover the Mesopotamian plain; Jacob had it when he felt his heartdissolve in tears at the sight of his kinswoman beside the well ofHaran. But Joan was safe from it now; its insidious poison wouldcorrode in her heart no more. 

Poor Hertha Carlson, deserving better than fate had given her withsheep-mad Swan! She could not reason without violence any longer, sooften 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. Freeto leave the country now, Hall very likely would be coming over tobalance accounts. There was his old score against Mackenzie for hishumiliation at the hands of the apprentice sheepherder, whichdoubtless had grown more bitter day by day; and there was his doubleaccount against Reid and Mackenzie for the loss of his sheep-killingbrother. Mackenzie hoped that he would go away and let matters standas they were. 

And Swan. It had not been all a jest, then, when he proposed tradinghis woman for Mackenzie's. What a wild, irresponsible, sheep-mad manhe was! But he hardly would attempt any violence toward Joan, eventhough he "spoke of her in the night. "

From Carlson, Mackenzie's thoughts ran out after Reid. Contempt rosein him, and deepened as he thought of the mink-faced youth carryinghis deceptive poison into the wild Norseman's camp. But insane as shewas, 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 fromit; only its fulfilment would bend her to yield to his importunities. It was a shocking mess that Reid had set for himself to drink someday, for Swan Carlson would come upon them in their hand-holding inhis hour, as certainly as doom. 

And there was the picture of the red-haired giant of the sheeplandsand that flat-chested, sharp-faced youth drinking beside thesheep-wagon in the night. There was Swan, lofty, cold, unbending;there was Reid, the craft, the knowledge of the world's under placeswritten on his brow, the deceit that he practiced against his hosthidden away in his breast. 

Mackenzie sighed, putting it from him like a nightmare that calls aman from his sleep by its false peril, wringing sweat from him in itsagony. Let them bind in drink and sever in blood, for all that hecared. 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 wasnot alone. That is to say, not immediately accompanied by anybody, yetnot alone for a country where a quarter of a mile between men israther close company. 

Somebody was coming on after the old shepherd, holding about the samedistance behind him in spite of little dashes down slopes that Dadmade when for a moment out of sight. Mackenzie's wonder over thispeculiar behavior grew as the old man came near, and it was discoveredto the eye that his persistent shadow was a woman. 

Dad wasted neither words nor breath on his explanation when he camepanting up the slope that brought him to the place where Mackenziestood above his sheep. 

"It's that dad-burned Rabbit!" he said. 

There was something between vexation and respect in Dad's voice. Heturned to look back as he spoke. Rabbit had mounted the hilltop justacross the dip, where she stood looking over at her shifty-footedlord, two sheep-dogs at her side. 

"How did she locate you?" Mackenzie inquired, not in the leastdispleased over this outreaching of justice after the fickle old man. 

"She's been trailin' me four years!" Dad whispered, his respect forRabbit's powers on the scent unmistakable. 

"That's a long time to hold a cold trail. Rabbit must be some on thetrack!"

"You can't beat them Indians follerin' a man if they set their headsto it. Well, it's all off with the widow-lady at Four Cornersnow--Rabbit's got me nailed. You see them sheep-dogs? Them dogs they'djump me the minute Rabbit winked at 'em--they'd chaw me up like acouple of lions. She's raised 'em up to do it, dad-burn her! Had myold vest to learn 'em the scent. "

"A man never ought to leave his old vest behind him when he runs awayfrom his wife, " said Mackenzie, soberly. "But it looks to me like awoman with the sticking qualities Rabbit's got isn't a bad one to staymarried to. How in the world could a reservation squaw find her wayaround to follow you all this time?"

"She's educated, dang her; she went to the sisters' mission. She canread 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 herwith them dogs around. They'd chaw me up quicker'n a man could hang uphis hat. "

Rabbit composed herself after her patient but persistent way, sittingamong the bushes with only her head showing, waiting for Dad's nextmove. 

"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 aslong as I live. I reckon I'll have to stay right here and run sheepfor 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 rangehandlin' sheep, she can draw a man's pay wherever she goes. I guess Icould put her to work, and that'd help some. "

Dad brightened a bit at that prospect, and drew his breath with a newhope. Even with the widow gone from his calculations, the futuredidn't promise all loss. 

"But I bet you I'll shoot them two dogs the first time I can draw abead on 'em!" Dad declared. 

"Maybe if you'll treat Rabbit the right way she'll sell them. Call herover, Dad; I'd like to get acquainted with her. "

Dad beckoned with his hand, but Rabbit did not stir; waved his hat toemphasize his command; Rabbit remained quiet among the bushes, the topof her black head in plain view. 

"She's afraid we've hatched up some kind of a trick between us to workoff on her, " said Dad. 

"You can't blame her for being a little distrustful, Dad. But let hergo; 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 stickto me till I'm under ground. That's one time too many I married--justone 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 nexttime, 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 ofthe kind that can't stand the lonesomeness. Leave him out here alonetwo 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'mkind o' cracked myself. I must be, or I never would 'a' left thatvest. "

Dad took off his hat to smooth his sweeping curled locks, as white asshredded asbestos, and full of the same little gleams that mineralshows when a block of it from the mine is held in the sun. His beardwas whitening over his face again, like a frost that defied the heatof day, easing its hollows and protuberances, easing some of theweakness that the barber's razor had laid so pitilessly bare. In a fewdays more he would appear himself again, and be ready for thesheep-shears in due time. 

"I reckon I'll have to make the best of the place I'm in, but for aman of puncture, as the feller said, like I used to think I was, Isure did miscombobble it when I married that educated squaw. No womanI ever was married to in my life ever had sense enough to track a manlike that woman's follered me. She sure is a wonder on the scent. "

Patiently Rabbit was sitting among the bushes, waiting the turn ofevents, not to be fooled again, not to be abandoned, if vigilancecould insure her against such distress. Mackenzie's admiration for thewoman grew with Dad's discomfiture over his plight. There was an addedflavor of satisfaction for him in the old man's blighted career. WiseRabbit, to have a priest marriage, and wiser still to follow this olddodger of the sheeplands and bring him up with a short halter in theevening of his days. 

"I'll go on back and look after them sheep, " said Dad, with a certainsad inflection of resignation; "there's nothing else to _be_ done. Iwas aimin' to serve notice on Tim to find another man in my place, butI might as well keep on. Well, I can set in the shade, anyhow, and letRabbit do the work--her and them blame dogs. "

Dad sighed. It helped a great deal to know that Rabbit could do thework. He looked long toward the spot where his unshaken wife kept herwatch on him, but seemed to be looking over her head, perhaps tryingto measure all he had lost by this coming between him and the one-eyedwidow-lady of Four Corners. 

"I wonder if I could git you to write a letter over to that widow andtell her I'm dead?" he asked. 

"I'll do it if you want me to. But you're not dead yet, Dad--you mayoutlive Rabbit and marry the widow at last. "

"I never was no lucky man, " said Dad, smoothing his gleaming hair. "Aman 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' thesights 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 morewords, a thing unheard of for him. He gave Rabbit a wide fairway as hepassed. When he was a respectable distance ahead the squaw rose fromher bush and followed, such determination in her silent movements asto make Dad's hope for future freedom hollow indeed. The old man wascinched at last; Mackenzie was glad that it was so. 

The sound of Carlson's sheep was still near that morning, and comingnearer, as whoever attended them ranged them slowly along. Mackenziewent a little way across the hill in that direction, but could not seethe shepherd, although the sheep were spread on the slope just beforehim. It was a small flock, numbering not above seven hundred. Mackenzie was puzzled why Swan wanted to employ his own or his wife'stime in grazing so small a number, when four times as many could behandled as easily. 

This question was to be answered for him very soon, and in a way whichhe never had imagined. Yet there was no foreboding of it in the calmnoonday as he prepared his dinner in the shade of some welcomewillows, the heat glimmering over the peaceful hills. 

It was while Mackenzie sat dozing in the fringe of shade such as ahedge would cast at noonday that the snarl of fighting dogs broughthim up to a realization of what was going forward among the sheep. Hisown flock had drifted like a slow cloud to the point of the longridge, and there Swan Carlson's band had joined it. The two flockswere mingling now, and on the edge of the confused mass his own dogsand Carlson's were fighting. 

Swan was not in sight; nobody seemed to be looking after the sheep; itappeared as if they had been left to drift as they might to thisconjunction with Mackenzie's flock. Mackenzie believed Mrs. Carlsonhad abandoned her charge and fled Swan's cruelty, but he did notexcuse himself for his own stupidity in allowing the flocks to cometogether as he ran to the place where his dogs and Carlson's fought. 

The sheep were becoming more hopelessly mingled through this commotionon their flank. Mackenzie was beating the enraged dogs apart when SwanCarlson came running around the point of the hill. 

Swan immediately took part in the mêlée of gnashing, rolling, rearingdogs, laying about among them with impartial hand, quickly subduingthem to obedience. He stood looking stonily at Mackenzie, unmoved byanger, unflushed by exertion. In that way he stood silent a littlewhile, 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 Ididn't say nothing. But when a man tries to run his sheep over amongstmine and drive 'em off, I take a hand. "

"If anybody's tryin' such a game as that, it's you, " Mackenzie toldhim. "Get 'em out of here, and keep 'em out. "

"I got fifteen hundred in that band--you'll have to help me cut 'emout, " said Swan. 

"You had about seven hundred, " Mackenzie returned, dispassionately, although it broke on him suddenly what the big flockmaster was tryingto put through. 

Counting on Mackenzie's greenness, and perhaps on the simplicity ofhis nature as they had read it in the sheep country, Swan had preparedthis trap days ahead. He had run a small band of the same breed asSullivan's sheep--for that matter but one breed was extensively grownon the range--over to the border of Tim's lease with the intention ofmingling them and driving home more than he had brought. Mackenzienever had heard of the trick being worked on a green herder, but herealized now how simply it could be done, opportunity such as thispresenting. 

But it was one thing to bring the sheep over and another thing to takethem away. One thing Mackenzie was sure of, and that was the judgmentof his eyes in numbering sheep. That had been Dad Frazer's firstlesson, and the old man had kept him at it until he could come withina few head among hundreds at a glance. 

"I'll help you cut out as many as you had, " Mackenzie said, runninghis eyes over the mingled flocks, "they're all alike, one as good asanother, 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. "Ihad 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 thenwith growls, threatening to open the battle again. The sheep driftedabout in confusion, so thoroughly mingled now that it would be pasthuman power to separate them again and apportion each respective headto its rightful owner. 

"Seven hundred, at the outside, " Mackenzie said again. "And keep themoff of my grass when you get 'em. "

Carlson stood where he had stopped, ten feet or more distant, his armsbare, 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 wouldeither have to yield entirely and allow Carlson to drive off seven oreight hundred of Sullivan's sheep, or fight. There didn't seem to bemuch question on how it would come out in the latter event, forCarlson was not armed, and Mackenzie's pistol was that moment underhis hand. 

"You got a gun on you, " said Swan, in casual, disinterested tone. "Iain't got no gun on me, but I'm a better man without no gun than youare 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 gauntgray beast that seemed almost a purebred wolf. Its jaws were bloodyfrom its late encounter; flecks of blood were on its gray coat. It satpanting and alert, indifferent to Mackenzie's presence, watching thesheep as if following its own with its savage eyes. Suddenly Carlsonspoke an explosive word, clapping his great hands, stamping his foottoward Mackenzie. 

Mackenzie fired as the wolf-dog sprang, staggering back from theweight of its lank body hurled against his breast, and fired again ashe felt the beast's vile breath in his face as it snapped close to histhroat. 

Mackenzie emptied his pistol in quick, but what seemed ineffectual, shots at the other dog as it came leaping at Carlson's command. In aninstant he was involved in a confusion of man and dog, the body of thewolfish collie impeding his feet as he fought. 

Carlson and the other dog pressed the attack so quickly that Mackenziehad no time to slip even another cartridge into his weapon. Carlsonlaughed as he clasped him in his great arms, the dog clinging toMackenzie's pistol hand, and in a desperate moment it was done. Mackenzie was lying on his back, the giant sheepman's knee in hischest. 

Carlson did not speak after ordering the dog away. He held Mackenzie alittle while, hand on his throat, knee on his chest, looking withunmoved features down into his eyes, as if he considered whether tomake an end of him there or let him go his way in added humiliationand disgrace. Mackenzie lay still under Carlson's hand, trying to readhis intention in his clear, ice-cold, expressionless eyes, watchingfor his moment to renew the fight which he must push under suchhopeless disadvantage. 

Swan's eyes betrayed nothing of his thoughts. They were as calm anduntroubled as the sky, which Mackenzie thought, with a poignant sweepof transcendant fear for his life, he never had beheld so placid andbeautiful 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 hisstrength, the pleasure in the agony that spoke from his victim's face, gleamed for a moment in Carlson's eyes as he bent, gazing; thenflickered like a light in the wind, and died. 

Mackenzie's revolver lay not more than four feet from his hand. Hegathered his strength for a struggle to writhe from under Carlson'spressing knee. Carlson, anticipating his intention, reached for theweapon and snatched it, laying hold of it by the barrel. 

Mackenzie's unexpected renewal of the fight surprised Carlson intoreleasing his strangling hold. He rose to sitting posture, breast tobreast with the fighting sheepman, whose great bulk towered above him, free breath in his nostrils, fresh hope in his heart. He foughtdesperately to come to his feet, Carlson sprawling over him, thepistol 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 theheavens seemed to crash above him, the fragments of universaldestruction burying him under their weight. 

CHAPTER XIX

NOT CUT OUT FOR A SHEEPMAN

Mackenzie returned to conscious state in nausea and pain. Not on asurge, but slow-breaking, like the dawn, his senses came to him, assembling as dispersed birds assemble, with erratic excursions as ifdistrustful of the place where they desire to alight. Wherever thesoul may go in such times of suspended animation, it comes back to itsdwelling in trepidation and distrust, and with lingering at the door. 

The first connected thought that Mackenzie enjoyed after coming out ofhis shock was that somebody was smoking near at hand; the next thatthe sun was in his eyes. But these were indifferent things, drowned ina flood of pain. He put them aside, not to grope after the cause ofhis 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 oldabode with a sigh. Then Mackenzie remembered the poised revolver inSwan Carlson's hand. He moved, struggling to rise, felt a sweep ofsickness, a flood of pain, but came to a sitting posture in the way ofa man fighting to life from beneath an avalanche. The sun was directlyin his eyes, standing low above the hill. He shifted weakly to relieveits discomfort. Earl Reid was sitting near at hand, a few feet abovehim on the side of the hill. 

Reid was smoking a cigarette, his hat pushed back, the shadows of hislate discontent cleared out of his face. Below them the sheep weregrazing. They were all there; Mackenzie had wit enough in him to seethat they were all there. 

Reid looked at him with a grin that seemed divided between amusementand 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 toinquire into the matter of Reid's recovery of the sheep; the worldtipped 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'dbetter go to the ranch and have it looked after; you can take myhorse. "

Mackenzie was almost indifferent both to the information of his hurtand 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. Thiswas of more importance to him for the moment than his injury. SwanCarlson 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 hadhappened 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 couldsee the point of humor in it that Mackenzie could not be expected toenjoy. 

Mackenzie did not attempt a reply. He looked with a sort of impersonalcuriosity at his hand and forearm, where the dog had bitten him inseveral places. That had happened a good while ago, he reasoned; theblood had dried, the marks of the dog's teeth were bruised-lookingaround the edges. 

And the sheep were all there, and Reid was laughing at him insatisfaction of his disgrace. There was no sound of Swan Carlson'sflock, no sight of the sheepman. Reid had come and untangled whatMackenzie had failed to prevent, and was sitting there, unruffled andundisturbed, enjoying already the satisfaction of his addeddistinction. 

Perhaps Reid had saved his life from Carlson's hands, as he had savedit from Matt Hall's. His debt to Reid was mounting with mockingswiftness. As if in scorn of his unfitness, Reid had picked up his gunand put it back in its sheath. 

What would Joan say about this affair? What would Tim Sullivan'sverdict be? He had not come off even second best, as in the encounterwith Matt Hall, but defeated, disgraced. And he would have been robbedin 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 ofhim in the sheep country. A sort of kindly indictment it was, but morehumiliating because it seemed true. No, he was not cut out for asheepman, indeed, nor for anything but that calm and placid woman'swork in the schoolroom, it seemed. 

Mackenzie looked again at his hand. There was no pain in it, but itsappearance was sufficient to alarm a man in a normal state ofreasonableness. He had the passing thought that it ought to beattended to, and got up on weaving legs. He might wash it in thecreek, he considered, and so take out the rough of whatever infectionthe dog's teeth had driven into his flesh, but dismissed the notion atonce as altogether foolish. It needed bichloride of mercury, and itwas unlikely there was such a thing within a hundred and fifty miles. 

As he argued this matter of antiseptics with himself Mackenzie walkedaway from the spot where Reid remained seated, going aimlessly, quiteunconscious of his act. Only when he found himself some distance awayhe stopped, considering what to do. His thoughts ran in fragments andflashes, broken by the throbbing of his shocked brain, yet he knewthat Reid had offered to do something for him which he could notaccept. 

No, he could not place himself under additional obligation to Reid. Live or die, fail or succeed, Reid should not be called upon again tooffer a supporting hand. He could sit there on the hillside and grinabout this encounter with Carlson, and grin about the hurt inMackenzie's hand and arm, and the blinding pain in his head. Let himgrin in his high satisfaction of having turned another favor toMackenzie's account; let him grin until his face froze in a grin--heshould 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 haveJoan! Blind from pain, sick, dizzy, the earth rising up before him ashe walked, Mackenzie went on. He did not look back to see if Reidcame to help him; he would have resented it if he had come, and cursedhim 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 theold herder and his squaw lay asleep, arriving without alarm of dogs, his own collies at his heels. It was the sharp-eared Indian woman whoheard him, and knew by his faltering step that it was somebody indistress. 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 Frazerhad carried word to her early that morning of Mackenzie's condition, the old man divided in his opinion as to whether man or beast hadmauled the shepherd and left him in such melancholy plight. 

"Both man and beast, " Rabbit had told Joan, having no division of mindin the case at all. And so Joan believed it to be, also, after sittingfor hours in the hot sheep-wagon beside the mangled, unconsciousschoolmaster, who did not move in pain, nor murmur in delirium, nordrop one word from his clenched, still lips to tell whose hand hadinflicted this terrible punishment. 

And the range seemed bent on making a secret of it, also. Dad had gonehot-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 thehills. Now, Joan, heading back to her camp at dusk of the longest, heaviest, darkest day she ever had known, met Reid as she rode awayfrom Dad Frazer's wagon, and started out of her brooding to hastenforward and question him. 

"How did it happen--who did it?" she inquired, riding up breathlesslywhere Reid lounged on his horse at the top of the hill waiting for herto come to him. 

"Happen? What happen?" said Reid, affecting surprise. 

"Mr. Mackenzie--surely you must know something about it--he's nearlykilled!"

"Oh, Mackenzie. " Reid spoke indifferently, tossing away his cigarette, laughing a little as he shaped the shepherd's name. "Mackenzie had alittle trouble with Swan Carlson, but this time he didn't land hislucky 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 gentlesadness in his soft voice that seemed to express his pity for theunlucky man. "I happened to be away when it started, but I gotthere--well, I got there, anyhow. "

Joan's eyes were still severe, but a question grew in them as shefaced him, looking at him searchingly, as if to read what it was hehid. 

"Where have you been all day? Dad's been looking high and low foryou. "

"I guess I was over at Carlson's when the old snoozer came, " Reid toldher, 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'sgoing to die!"

"Oh, not that bad, Joan?" Reid jerked his horse about with quick handas he spoke, making as if to start down at once to the camp where thewounded schoolmaster lay. "Why, he walked off yesterday afternoon likehe 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 fromhim and soaked him over the head with it, " said Reid, regretfully. 

"You were there, and you let him do it!" Joan felt that she disparagedMackenzie with the accusation as soon as the hasty words fell from hertongue, but biting the lips would not bring them back. 

"He needs _somebody_ around with him, but I can't be right beside himall the time, Joan. "

"Oh, I don't mean--I didn't--I guess he's able to take care of himselfif they give him a show. If you saw it, you can tell me how ithappened. "

"I'll ride along with you, " Reid offered; "I can't do him any good bygoing down to see him. Anybody gone for a doctor?"

"Rabbit's the only doctor. I suppose she can do him as much good asanybody--he'll die, anyhow. "

"He's not cut out for a sheepman, " said Reid, ruminatively, shakinghis head in depreciation. 

"I should _hope_ not!" said Joan, expressing in the emphasis, as wellas in the look of superior scorn that she gave him, the differencethat she felt lay between Mackenzie and a clod who might qualify for asheepman and no questions asked. 

"I'll ride on over to camp with you, " Reid proposed again, facing hishorse to accompany her. 

"No, you mustn't leave the sheep alone at night--it's bad enough to doit in the day. What was the trouble between him and Swan--who startedit?"

"Some of Swan's sheep got over with ours--I don't know how ithappened, or whose fault it was. I'd been skirmishin' around a little, gettin' the lay of the country mapped out in my mind. Swan andMackenzie were mixin' it up when I got there. "

"Carlson set his dogs on him!" Joan's voice trembled with her highscorn of such unmanly dealing, such unworthy help. 

"He must have; one of the dogs was shot, and I noticed Mackenzie'shand was chewed up a little. They were scuffling to get hold ofMackenzie's gun when I got there--he'd dropped it, why, you can searchme! Swan got it. He hit him once with it before I could--oh well, Iguess it don't make any difference, Mackenzie wouldn't thank me forit. He's a surly devil!"

Joan touched his arm, as if to call him from his abstraction, leaningto 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 andrevive it; a softness came into her face, a light of appreciativethankfulness into her eyes. She reined closer to Reid, eager now tohear the rest of the melancholy story. 

"You took the gun away from Swan; I saw it in his scabbard downthere. Did you have to--did you have to--do anything to Carlson, Earl?"

Reid laughed, shortly, harshly, a sound so old to come from younglips. 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. Hegot away with thirty sheep more than belonged to him, though--I foundit out when I counted ours. I guess I was over there after them whenDad was lookin' for me today. "

"You brought them back?" Joan leaned again, her hand on his arm, whereit remained a little spell, as she looked her admiration into hisface. 

"Nothing to it, " said Reid, modestly, laughing again in his gratingharsh way of vast experience, and scorn for the things which move theheart. 

"It's a good deal, I think, " said she. "But, " thoughtfully, "I don'tsee 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 againsthim. "

"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 fewmoments, 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, " andJoan's voice threatened tears in its low, earnest tremolo, "butI----"

"Oh, that's all right, Joan. " Reid waved gratitude, especiallyvicarious gratitude, aside, smiling lightly. "He's not booked to goyet; wait till he's well and let him do his own talking. Somebodyought to sneak that gun away from him, though, and slip a twenty-twoin his scabbard. They can't hurt him so bad with that when they takeit away from him. "

"It might have happened to you!" she reproached. 

"Well, it might, " Reid allowed, after some reflection. "Sure, itmight, " brightening, looking at her frankly, his ingenuous smilesoftening the crafty lines of his thin face. "Well, leave him toRabbit and Dad; they'll fix him up. "

"If he isn't better tomorrow I'm going for a doctor, if nobody elsewill. "

"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 lookedin 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, tendereyes. 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, lookingup suddenly, "but I don't want the girl--oh well, you know as well asI 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 wasbefore 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 withoutpay. As far as I'm concerned, you'd just as well hit the breeze out ofthis 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 hiswill goes, I could beat it in law, and then have a pile big enoughleft to break my neck if I was to jump off the top of it. They're notputting anything over on me, Joan. I'm sticking to this little oldrange because it suits me to stick. I would go tomorrow if it wasn'tfor you. "

Reid added this in a low voice, his words a sigh, doing it well, evenconvincingly well. 

"I'm sorry, " Joan said, moved by his apparent sincerity, "but there'snot a bit of use in your throwing away three years, or even three moremonths, of your life here, Earl. "

"You'll like me better when you begin to know me, Joan. I've stood offbecause 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 getacquainted. "

"Earl, it wouldn't be a bit of use. " Joan spoke earnestly, pitying hima little, now that she began to believe him. 

"Why, we're already engaged, " he said; "they've disposed of us likethey do princes and princesses. "

"I don't know how they marry them off, but if that's the way, it won'twork on the sheep range, " said Joan. 

"We've been engaged, officially, ever since I struck the range, andI've never once, never even--" He hesitated, constrained bybashfulness, it seemed, from his manner of bending his head andplucking at her horse's mane. 

"We're not even officially engaged, " she denied, coldly, not pityinghis bashfulness at all, nor bent to assist him in delivering what layon the end of his tongue. "You can't pick up a sheepwoman and marryher 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 facenear her own, so near that she shrank back, and drew on her hand tocome free. 

"I don't see why we need to wait three years to get married, Joan, " heargued, his persuasive voice very soft and tender. "If the old man sawI meant business----"

"Business!" scorned Joan. 

"Sheep business, I mean, Joan, " chidingly, a tincture of injury in histone. 

"Oh, sheep business, " said Joan, leaning far over to look at theknotting of her cinch. 

"Sure, to settle down to it here and take it as it comes, the way hegot his start, he'd come across with all the money we'd want to take arun out of here once in a while and light things up. We ought to begettin' 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 beganto tighten her cinch. Reid alighted with a word of protest, offeringhis hand for the work. Joan ignored his proffer, with a littleindependent, altogether scornful, toss of the head. 

"You can find plenty of them ready to take you up, " she said. "What'sthe reason you have to stay right here for three years, and then marryme, to make a million dollars? Can't you go anywhere else?"

"The old man's picked on this country because he knows your dad, andhe settled on you for the girl because you got into his eye, just theway you've got into mine, Joan. I was sore enough about it at first tothrow the money and all that went with it to the pigs, and blow out ofhere. 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--myheart gets in the way, I guess, and chokes me off. But I never saw agirl that I ever lost sleep over till I saw you. "

Joan did not look at him as he drew nearer with his words. She pulledthe stirrup down, lifted her foot to it, and stood so a second, handon the pommel to mount. And so she glanced round at him, standing nearher shoulder, his face flushed, a brightness in his eyes. 

Quicker than thought Reid threw his arm about her shoulders, drawingher 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 theimpending salute, her hand to Reid's shoulder in a shove that sent himback 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, theexpression of contrition. 

"You're too fresh to keep!" Joan said, brushing her face savagely withher hand where his cheek had pressed it for a breath. 

"I'll ask you next time, " he promised, looking up between whatseemed hope and contrition. But there was a mocking light in hissophisticated face, a greedy sneer in his lustful eyes, which Joancould feel and see, although she could not read to the last shamefuldepths. 

"Don't try it any more, " she warned, in the cool, even voice of onesure of herself. 

"I ought to have a right to kiss my future wife, " he defended, ashadow 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 trampledunder 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. Iguess if you go straight and prove you deserve it, you'll not need anygirl 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 herreins tight, and galloped away. 

CHAPTER XXI

TIM SULLIVAN BREAKS A CONTRACT

"And that will be the end of it, " said Tim Sullivan, finality in histone, his face stern, his manner severe. "I've passed my word to oldMalcolm 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, " saidTim, warming a little, speaking with more softness, not withoutadmiration for her penetration. "He'll be the better able to lookafter you, and see they don't get his money away from him like somesimpleton. "

"Oh, they'll get it, all right. "

Tim had arrived that morning from a near-by camp as Joan was about toset out for Dad Frazer's. From his way of plunging abruptly into thismatter, which he never had discussed with her before, and hissharpness and apparent displeasure with her, Joan knew that he hadseen Reid overnight. They were beside the sheep-wagon, to a wheel ofwhich Joan's horse was tied, all saddled and ready to mount. The sunwas already high, for Joan had helped Charley range the flock out forits 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 whenhe speaks. "

"He's a thousand years older than I am; he knows things that you neverheard of. "

"Somebody's been whisperin' slanders of him in your ear. He's a finelad, 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 letit move you at all. "

"I wouldn't have him if he brought his million in a wheelbarrow anddumped it at my feet. "

"It's not a million, as I hear it, " Tim corrected, mildly, even a bitthoughtfully, "not more nor a half. "

"Then he's only half as desirable, " smiled Joan, the little gleam ofhumor 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 ofhalf a million. Here it comes to you while you're young, with thekeenness to relish it and the free hand to spend the interest offof it, and sail over the seas and see the world you're longin' toknow and understand. "

Joan's hat hung on the saddle-horn, the morning wind was trifling withlight breath in her soft, wave-rippled hair. Her brilliant necktie hadbeen put aside for one of narrower span and more sober hue, a bluewith white dots. The free ends of it blew round to her shoulder, wherethey lay a moment before fluttering off to brush her cheek, as if todraw by this slight friction some of the color back into it that thistroubled interview had drained away. 

She stood with her head high, her chin lifted, determination in hereyes. Thorned shrubs and stones had left their marks on her strongboots, the little teeth of the range had frayed the hem of her shortcloth skirt, but she was as fresh to see as a morning-glory in thesun. Defiance outweighed the old cast of melancholy that clouded hereyes; her lips were fixed in an expression which was denial in itselfas she stood looking into the wind, her little brown hands clenched ather sides. 

"I want that you should marry him, as I have arranged it with oldMalcolm, " said Tim, speaking slowly to give it greater weight. "I havepassed my word; let that be the end. "

"I've got a right to have a word, too. Nobody else is as muchconcerned in it as me, Dad. You can't put a girl up and sell her likea sheep. "

"It's no sale; it's yourself that comes into the handlin' of themoney. "

Tim took her up quickly on it, a gleam in his calculative eye, as ifhe 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--neverin this world! There's something about him--something----"

"It'll wear off; 'tis the strangeness of him, but three years willbring 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 tosuch a preposterous charge. And again: "Clean? He's as fresh as adaisy, as clean as a lamb. "

"It's the way he seems to me, " she insisted, with conviction that noargument would shake. "I don't know any other name for it--you can seeit in his eyes. "

"Three year here will brace him up, Joan; he'll come to you as freshas lumber out of the mill. "

"No, all the wind in the world can't blow it out of him. I can't doit, I'll never do it!"

"And me with my word passed to old Malcolm!" Tim seemed to grieve overit, and the strong possibility of its repudiation; his face fell solong, 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, turningto her, spreading his hands, the oil of blarney in his voice. "You'vetook 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 ofher girlhood in her tone. She did not turn to face him, her head highthat way, her chin up, her nose in the wind as if her assurance lay inits warm scents, and her courage came on its caress. 

"You've been the gerrel that's gone out in the storm and the bitterblast to save the sheep, and stood by them when their poor souls shookwith 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 rainand shine, askin' me nothing, not a whimper or a complaint out ofye--that's what you've been to me, Joan. It's been a hard life for alass, 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 hiseyes. 

"You mind the time, Joan, four years ago it was the winter past, whenyou stood a full head shorter than you stand today, when the range wassnowed in, and the sheep was unable to break the crust that froze overit, and was huddlin' in the cañons starving wi' the hunger that wecouldn't ease? Heh--ye mind that winter, Joan, gerrel?"

Joan nodded again, her chin trembling as it dropped nearer to thefluttering necktie at her warm, round throat. And the tears werecoursing hotter, the well of them open, the stone at the mouth of itrolled away, the recollection of those harsh days almost too hard tobear. 

"And you mind how you read in the book from the farmer college how ahandful of corn a day would save the life of a sheep, and tide it overthe time of stress and storm till it could find the grass in under thesnow? 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 lengthin wind and snow to old Wellfleet's place down on the river, andbrought corn that saved to me the lives of no less than twentythousand sheep? It's not you and me, that's gone through these thingsside by side, that forgets them in the fair days, Joan, my littledarlin' gerrel. Them was hard days, and you didn't desert me and leaveme to go alone. "

Joan shook her head, the sob that she had been smothering breakingfrom her in a sharp, riving cry. Tim, feeling that he had softenedher, perhaps, laid his hand on her shoulder, and felt her bodytrembling under the emotion that his slow recital of past hardshipshad 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 hisheart 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 medown in ignorance--I gave you out of my youth till the well of mygiving has gone dry. I can't give what you ask today, Dad; I can'tgive 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 ofsorrow for the lost years stilled in her beautiful, strong body. Hervoice was steady when she spoke:

"I'll go on working, share and share alike with you, like I'm doingnow, 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, asif 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 stillyoung 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 lifeeasy to you, Joan, you put your back up like a catamount and tear atthe 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? IfI cared, he wouldn't have to have any money, and you wouldn't have toargue with me, to make me marry him. "

"It's that stubborn you are!" said Tim, his softness freezing over ina breath. 

"Let's not talk about it, Dad, " she pleaded, turning to him, the tearsundried on her cheeks, the sorrow of the years he had made slow andheavy 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 arrangementwe've made on the sheep, Dad. Let me go on like I have been, studyingmy lessons and looking after the sheep with Charley. I'm satisfied theway it is. "

"I've planned better things for you, Joan, better from this dayforward, and more to your heart. Mackenzie is all well enough forteachin' a little school of childer, but he's not deep enough to beover the likes of you, Joan. I'm thinkin' I'll send you to Cheyenne tothe sisters' college at the openin' of the term; very soon now, you'llbe 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 thetongue on French, and the nice little things you've missed here amongthe sheep, Joan darlin', and that neither me nor your mother nor JohnMackenzie--good lad that he is, though mistaken at times, woefulmistaken 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 alittle more as she denied him, her head so high she might have beenlistening to the stars. He looked at her with a deep flush coming intohis 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 fireof his purpose at once, "you'll take what I offer or leave what you'vegot! I'll have no more shyin' and shillyin' out of you, and me with myword 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, andgo on to school to be put in polish for the wife of a gentleman, orgive up the flock and the interest I allowed you in the increase, andgo home and scrape the pots and pans!"

"You'd never do that, Dad--you'd never break your word with me, afterall 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 lookher in the face as he said it, turning away like a stubborn man whohad no cause beneath his feet, but who meant to be stubborn and unjustagainst 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 tome means nothing!" Joan spoke in bitterness, her voice vibrating withpassion. 

"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 areason, as he saw it. There was a solid footing to his pretense atlast. 

"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 meand mock me and throw my offers for your good in my face, and speakdisrespectful----"

"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'llstay till you can trim your tongue and bend your mind to obey myword!"

"You've got no right to take my sheep; you went into a contract withme, 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, andleave 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 afteryou to tend to your case, my lady! I'll have none of this chargin' meto thievery out of the mouth of one of my childer--I'll have none ofit!"

"Maybe you've got a better name for it--you and old man Reid!" Joanscorned, 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 angrybecause the charge she made struck deep. He glowered at her, mumblingand growling as if considering immediate chastisement. 

Joan said no more, but her hand trembled, her limbs were weakunder her weight with the collapse of all her hopes, as she untied andmounted her horse. The ruin of her foundations left her in a daze, towhich the surging, throbbing of a sense of deep, humiliating, shameful wrong, added the obscuration of senses, the confusion ofunderstanding. She rode to the top of the hill, and there therecollection of Mackenzie came to her like the sharp concern for atreasure left behind. 

She reined in after crossing the hilltop, and debated a little whileon what course to pursue. But only for a little while. Always she hadobeyed her father, under injunctions feeling and unfeeling, just andunjust. He was not watching to see that she obeyed him now, knowingwell 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 passedbefore this day was nothing but the skimming of light shadows acrossher way, Joan rode homeward. A mile, and the drooping shouldersstiffened; the bent head lifted; Joan looked about her at the sunmaking the sheeplands glad. A mile, and the short breath of anger diedout of her panting lungs, the long, deep inspiration of restoredbalance in its place; the pale shade left her cold cheeks, where thewarm 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 foundhimself blinking understandingly at the sunlight through the open endof the sheep-wagon one morning. "You was chawed and beat up till youwas hangin' together by threads. "

Mackenzie was as weak as a young mouse. He closed his eyes and laythinking back over those days of delirium through which a gleam ofunderstanding fell only once in a while. Dad evidently believed thathe was well now, from his manner and speech, although Mackenzie knewthat if his life depended on rising and walking from the wagon hewould not be able to redeem it at the price. 

"I seem to remember a woman around me a good deal, " he said, nottrusting himself to look at Dad. "It wasn't--was it----?"

Mackenzie felt his face flush, and cursed his weakness, but he couldnot pronounce the name that filled his heart. 

"Yes, it was Rabbit, " said Dad, catching him up without the slightestunderstanding of his stammering. "She's been stickin' to you night andday. I tell you, John, them Indians can't be beat doctorin' a man upwhen he's been chawed up by a animal. "

"I want to thank her, " Mackenzie said, feeling his heart swing verylow indeed. 

"You won't see much of her now since you've come to your head, Ireckon she'll be passin' you over to me to look after. She's shy thatway. Yes, sir, any time I git bit up by man or beast, or shot up orknifed, I'll take Rabbit ahead of any doctor you can find. ThemIndians they know the secrets of it. I wouldn't be afraid to stand andlet a rattlesnake bite me till it fainted if Rabbit was around. Shecan cure it. "

But Mackenzie knew from the odor of his bandages that Rabbit was notdepending on her Indian knowledge in his case, or not entirely so. There was the odor of carbolic acid, and he was conscious all alongthat his head had been shaved around the wound in approved surgicalfashion. He reasoned that Rabbit went about prepared with theemergency remedies of civilization, and put it down to her schoolingat the Catholic sisters' hands. 

"Was there anybody--did anybody else come around?" Mackenzieinquired. 

"Tim's been by a couple of times. Oh, well--Joan. "

"Oh, Joan, " said Mackenzie, trying to make it sound as if he had noconcern in Joan at all. But his voice trembled, and life came boundingup 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 forgranted that Mackenzie held no tenderness for her, indeed. "I metCharley yesterday; he told me Joan was over home. Mary's out here withhim--she's the next one to Joan, you know. "

Mackenzie's day clouded; his sickness fell over him again, taking thefaint 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 awidower. That girl's as healthy as a burro--yes, and she'll outliveone, I'll bet money, and I've heard of 'em livin' eighty years down inMexico. "

Dad did not appear to be cognizant of Mackenzie's weakness. Accordingto the old man's pathology a man was safe when he regained his headout of the delirium of fever. All he needed then was cheering up, andDad did not know of any better way of doing that than by talking. Sohe let himself go, and Mackenzie shut his eyes to the hum of the oldfellow's voice, the sound beating on his ears like wind against closeddoors. 

Suddenly Dad's chatter ceased. The silence was as welcome as thefalling of a gale to a man at sea in an open boat. Mackenzie heard Dadleaving the wagon in cautious haste, and opened his eyes to see. Rabbit was beside him with a bowl of savory-smelling broth, which sheadministered to him with such gentle deftness that Mackenzie could nothelp believing Dad had libeled her in his story of the accident thathad left its mark upon her face. 

Rabbit would not permit her patient to talk, denying him with upliftedfinger and shake of head when he attempted it. She did not say a wordduring her visit, although her manner was only gentle, neither timidnor shy. 

Rabbit was a short woman, turning somewhat to weight, a little gray inher black hair, but rather due to trouble than age, Mackenziebelieved. Her skin was dark, her face bright and intelligent, butstamped 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 lighterthan the original skin, but it was not such a serious disfigurementthat 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 inthe back of the wagon. Mackenzie was certain that Dad had libeled herafter that. There was not a fly in the wagon to pester him, and heknew that the opening in the front end had been similarly screened, although he could not turn to see. Grateful to Rabbit, with the almosttearful tenderness that a sick man feels for those who have ministeredkindly to his pain, Mackenzie lay with his thoughts that first day ofconsciousness after his tempestuous season of delirium. 

They were not pleasant thoughts for a man whose blood was not yetcool. As they surged and hammered in his brain his fever flashedagain, burning in his eyes like a desert wind. Something had happenedto alienate Joan. 

That was the burden of it as the sun mounted with his fever, heatingthe enclosed wagon until it was an oven. Something had happened toalienate Joan. He did not believe her weak enough, fickle enough, toyield to the allurements of Reid's prospects. They must haveslandered him and driven her away with lies. Reid must have slanderedhim; 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 onthe range again to set right whatever wrong had been done him. Then itwould be too late. Surely Joan could not take his blunder intoCarlson's trap in the light of an unpardonable weakness; she was notso sheep-blind as that. Something had been done outside any act of hisown to turn her face and her sympathies away. 

Consumed in impatience to be up, anxiety for the delay, Mackenzie laythe throbbing day through like a disabled engine spending its vainpower upon a broken shaft. Kind Rabbit came frequently to give himdrink, to bathe his forehead, to place a cool cloth over his burningeyes. But Dad did not come again. How much better for his peace if thegarrulous old rascal had not come at all!

And then with the thought of Joan there came mingling the vexingwonder of the train of violence that had attended him into thesheeplands. He had come there to be a master over flocks, notexpecting to encounter any unfriendly force save the stern face ofnature. He had begun to muddle and meddle at the outset; he hadcontinued to muddle, if not meddle, to the very end. 

For this would be the end. No sheepman would countenance a herder whocould not take care of his flock in summer weather on a bountifulrange. His day was done in that part of the country so far as hisplans of becoming a sharing herdsman went. Earl Reid, a thin, anemiclad fresh from city life, had come in and made much more a figure of aman. 

So his fever boiled under the fuel of his humiliating thoughts. Thewagon was a bake-oven, but there was no sweat in him to cool hisparching 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 denialand pressed him down on the bunk. Then she gave him a drink that hadthe bitterness of opium in it, and he threw down his worrying snarl ofthoughts, 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 asheepman was fool enough to let anybody put a thing like that over onhim. "

"A sheepman oughtn't to be, " Mackenzie said, in the bitterness ofdefeat. 

"Swan knew you was an easy feller, and green to the ways of themtricky sheepmen, " said Dad. "You let him off in that first fight witha little crack on the head when you'd ought to 'a' laid him out forgood, and you let Hector Hall go that time you took his guns away fromhim. Folks in here never could understand that; they say it was like achild playin' with a rattlesnake. "

"It was, " Mackenzie agreed. 

"Swan thought he could run them sheep of his over on you and take awayfive or six hundred more than he brought, and I guess he'd 'a' done itif it hadn't been for Reid. "

"It looks that way, Dad. I sure was easy, to fall into his trap theway I did. "

Mackenzie was able to get about again, and was gaining strengthrapidly. 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 miserableindeed, and miserable the smell that came out of it, going there fullsteam on a hot afternoon of early autumn. Dad always carefully reamedout the first speck of carbon that formed in his pipe, and kept itreamed out with boring blade of his pocket knife. He wanted noinsulation against nicotine, and the strength thereof; he was notsatisfied unless the fire burned into the wood, and drew theinfiltrations of strong juice therefrom. When his charge of tobaccoburned out, and the fire came down to this frying, sizzlingabomination of smells at last, Dad beamed, enjoying it as a sort ofdessert to a delightful repast of strong smoke. 

Dad was enjoying his domestic felicity to the full these days ofMackenzie's convalescence. Rabbit was out with the sheep, being neededno longer to attend the patient, leaving Dad to idle as he pleased. His regret for the one-eyed widow seemed to have passed, leaving noscar behind. 

"Tim don't take no stock in it that Swan planned before to do you outof a lot of your sheep. He was by here this morning while you waswanderin' 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 bandsstray together, and of course it was human for Swan to want to takeaway more than he brought. Well, it was sheepman, anyhow, if it wasn'thuman. "

"Did Sullivan say that?"

"No, that's what I say. I know 'em; I know 'em to the bone. Reid knewhow many sheep him and you had, and he stuck out for 'em like a littleman. More to that feller than I ever thought he had in him. "

"Yes, " Mackenzie agreed. He lay stretched on his back, squinting atthe 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, andhe's as proud as all git-out of the way Reid stacked up. If that boyhadn't happened up when he did, Swan he'd 'a' soaked you another onewith that gun of yourn and put you out for good. They say that kidwaltzed Swan around there and made him step like he was standin' on ared-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 anyfeller would. But I don't think he had any hand in it with Swan to runhim in on you, if that's what you're drivin' at. "

"It never crossed my mind, " said Mackenzie, but not with his usualregard for the truth. 

"I don't like him, and I never did like him, but you've got to hand itto 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 hislong, bright hair. 

"I don't reckon you knew when you was teachin' Joan you was goin' toall that trouble for that feller, " he said. 

"Sullivan told me him and old man Reid had made an agreementconcerning the young folks, " Mackenzie returned, a sickness of dreadover him for what he believed he was about to hear. 

"Oh, Tim told you, did he? Never said nothin' to me about it till thismornin'. He's goin' to send Joan off to the sisters' school down atCheyenne. "

Mackenzie sat up, saying nothing for a good while. He sat looking atthe ground, buried in his thoughts as deep as a grave. Dad turnedcurious eyes upon him, but yet not eyes which probed to the secret ofhis 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. Ithink Tim and her had a spat, but I'm only guessin' from what Charleysaid. Reid was at the bottom of it, I'll bet a purty. That feller wasafraid you and Joan might git to holdin' hands out here on the rangeso much together, heads a touchin' over them books. "

Mackenzie heard the old man as the wind. No, he had not taught Joanenough to keep her in the sheeplands; she had not read deeply enoughinto that lesson which he once spoke of as the easiest to learn andthe hardest to forget. Joan's desire for life in the busy places hadoverbalanced her affection for him. Spat or no spat, she would havecome to see him more than once in his desperate struggle against deathif she had cared. 

He could not blame her. There was not much in a man who had made afailure of even sheepherding to bind a maid to him against theallurements 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' hiseye on 'em like he suspicioned they might kill a lamb once in a whileto go with their canned beans. "

"All right, " said Mackenzie, abstractedly. 

Dad looked at him with something like scorn for his inattention tosuch an engrossing subject. Mackenzie was not looking his way; histhoughts seemed to be a thousand leagues from Tim Sullivan's range andthe lambs on it, let them be alive or slaughtered to go with cannedbeans. 

But Joan would come back to the sheeplands, as she said everybody cameback to them who once had lived in their silences and breathed theirwide freedom. She would come back, not lost to him, but regained, herlesson learned, not to go away with that youth who wore the brand ofold sins on his face. So hope came to lift him and assure him, justwhen he felt the somber cloud of the lonesomeness beginning to engulfhis soul. 

"I know Tim don't like it, but me and Rabbit butcher lambs rightalong, and we'll keep on doin' it as long as we run sheep. A man's gotto have something besides the grub he gits out of tin cans. That ain'tno life. "

"You're right, Dad. I'd been in a hole on the side of some hill beforenow 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 alittle while before. "I save the hides and turn 'em over to him, andhe ain't got no kick. If I was them children I'd butcher me a lambonce a week, anyhow. But maybe they don't like it--I don't know. I'veknown sheepmen that couldn't go mutton, never tasted it from one yearto another. May be the smell of sheep when you git a lot of 'em in ashearin' 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 beenpoured 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 handand clear away her troubled doubts. The comfort of this thought woulddrive the lonesomeness away. 

He would wait. If not in Tim Sullivan's hire, then with a little flockof his own, independent of the lords of sheep. He would rather remainwith Sullivan, having more to prove now of his fitness to become aflockmaster than at the beginning. Sullivan's doubt of him would haveincreased; the scorn which he could not quite cover before would beopen now and expressed. They had no use in the sheeplands for a manwho fought and lost. They would respect him more if he refused tofight at all. 

Dad was still talking, rubbing his fuzzy chin with reflective hand, looking along the hillside to where Rabbit stood watch over thesheep. 

"Tim wanted to buy that big yellow collie from Rabbit, " he said. "Offered her eighty dollars. Might as well try to buy me from thatwoman!"

"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 withme. The other one and me we git along all right, but that feller he'sbeen educated on the scent of that old vest, and he'll be my enemy tomy 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 whiskyjug, 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'tRabbit that used to pull my jug too hard. That must 'a' been a Mexicanwoman I was married to one time down by El Paso. "

"I'll bet money it was the Mexican woman. How did Rabbit get her facescalded?"

"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'sprerogative 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 scrapingnoise, 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 tosave 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-shelledscoundrel!"

Dad took it in silence, and sat rubbing it into his beard like aliniment. After a while he rose, squinted his eye up at the sun with aquick turn of his head like a chicken. 

"I reckon every man's done something he ought to be hung for, " hesaid. 

That ended it. Dad went off to begin supper, there being potatoes tocook. Sullivan had sent a sack of that unusual provender out to campto 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 streamingover the hills. Tim could not resist it, for it was seasoned with wildonions and herbs, and between the four of them they left the pot asclean as Jack Spratt's platter, the dogs making a dessert on thebones. 

Dad and Rabbit went away presently to assemble the sheep for thenight, and Tim let his Irish tongue wag as it would. He was in livelyand generous mood, making a joke of the mingling of the flocks whichhad come so dearly to Mackenzie's account. He bore himself like a manwho had gained something, indeed, and that was the interpretation puton it by Mackenzie. 

Tim led up to what he had come to discuss presently, beaming with stewand satisfaction when he spoke of Joan. 

"Of course you understand, John, I don't want you to think it was anyslam 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' myauthority to marry her to the man I've picked. "

Mackenzie nodded, a great warmth of understanding glowing in hisbreast. 

"But I don't want you to feel that it was any reflection on yourability as a teacher, you understand, John; I don't want you to lookat 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 Ihadn't made that deal with Reid. A man's got to stick to his word, youknow, 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 ifshe kept on ridin' over to have lessons from you every day. You can'tblame 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, acertain hardness of dictation in his tone, "you'd just as well standout of it and let Earl have her. "

Mackenzie's heart swung so high it seemed to brush the early stars. Itwas certain now that Joan had not gone home without a fight, and thatshe had not remained there throughout his recovery from his woundswithout 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--notone 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 alot of sheep to amount to half a million, John. "

"Yes, " said Mackenzie, with the indifference of a man who did not haveany further interest in the case, seeing himself outbid. "That'shigher than I'll ever be able to go. All right; let him have her. " Butbeneath 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'tblame a man for marryin' into a sheep ranch if he can--I call himsmart--and I'd just as soon you as any man'd marry one of my girls, asI 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 wassincere. If he grinned a little to himself, Tim did not note it in thedusk. 

"Now, there's my Mary; she's seventeen; she'll be a woman in threeyears more, and she'll make two of Joan when she fills out. My Marywould make the fine wife for a lad like you, John, and I'll give youfive 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 andbeamed as never before. He slapped the simpleton of a schoolmaster whohad come into the sheeplands to be a great sheepman on the back withhearty hand, believing he had swallowed hook and all. 

"Done! The day you marry Mary you'll have your five thousand sheepalong wi' her! I pass you my word, and it goes. "

They shook hands on it, Mackenzie as solemn as though making acovenant in truth. 

"The day I marry Mary, " said he. 

"It'll be three years before she's old enough to take up the weight ofcarryin' babies, and of course you understand you'll have to wait onher, lad. A man can't jump into these things the way he buys ahorse. "

"Oh, sure. "

"You go right on workin' for me like you are, " pursued Tim, drunk onhis 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 shareson 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 ifyou was my son. "

Tim patted Mackenzie's shoulder again, doubtless warm to the bottom ofhis sheep-blind heart over the prospect of a hand to serve him threeyears who would go break-neck and hell-for-leather, not countingconsequences in his blind and simple way, or weather or hardships ofany kind. For there was Mary, and there were five thousand sheep. Asfor Joan, she was out of Tim's reckoning any longer. He had a newJacob 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, "andyou'll learn it like a book. I always said from the day you come youhad 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 thatway 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 maynot 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 softin 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 theirown way--they can't miss it if there's nobody between them. I'll sayno word to Mary at all, but you have leave to go and see her as oftenas you like, lad, and the sooner you begin the better, to catch herwhile 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 thehospital band. "

"I'm able to handle them now, I think. "

"But take your time, take it easy. Reid gets on with Swan, bein' moreexperienced with men than you, I guess. Well, a schoolteacher don'tmeet men the way other people do; he's shut up with the childer allthe day, and he gets so he measures men by them. That won't do on thesheep 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 inyou 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 asheepman 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 aJoan?"

"No difference--when he's marrying a sheep ranch, " Mackenziereturned. 

CHAPTER XXIV

MORE ABOUT MARY

Mackenzie took Tim at his word two days after their interview, andwent visiting Mary. He made the journey across to her range more totry his legs than to satisfy his curiosity concerning the substitutefor Joan so cunningly offered by Tim in his Laban-like way. He waspleased to find that his legs bore him with almost their accustomedvigor, and surprised to see the hills beginning to show the yellowblooms of autumn. His hurts in that last encounter with Swan Carlsonand his dogs had bound him in camp for three weeks. 

Mary was a smiling, talkative, fair-haired girl, bearing thefoundation of a generous woman. She had none of the shyness about herthat might be expected in a lass whose world had been the sheep range, and this Mackenzie put down to the fact of her superior socialposition, as fixed by the size of Tim Sullivan's house. 

Conscious of this eminence above those who dwelt in sheep-wagons orlog houses by the creek-sides, Tim's girls walked out into their worldwith assurance. Tim had done that much for them in rearing his mansionon the hilltop, no matter what he had denied them of educationalrefinements. Joan had gone hungry on this distinction; she haddeveloped the bitterness that comes from the seeds of loneliness. Thiswas lacking in Mary, who was all smiles, pink and white in spite ofsheeplands winds and suns. Mary was ready to laugh with anybody or atanybody, and hop a horse for a twenty-mile ride to a dance any nightyou might name. 

Mackenzie made friends with her in fifteen minutes, and had learned atthe end of half an hour that friend was all he might ever hope to beeven if he had come with any warmer notions in his breast. Mary wasengaged to be married. She told him so, as one friend to another, pledging him to secrecy, showing a little ring on a white ribbon abouther neck. Her Corydon was a sheepman's son who lived beyond theSullivan ranch, and could dance like a butterfly and sing songs to thebanjo in a way to melt the heart of any maid. So Mary said, but in herown way, with blushes, and wide, serious eyes. 

Mackenzie liked Mary from the first ingenuous word, and promised tohold her secret and help her to happiness in any way that a man mightlift an honorable hand. And he smiled when he recalled Tim Sullivan'sword about catching them young. Surely a man had to be stirring earlyin the day to catch them in the sheeplands. Youth would look out forits own there, as elsewhere. Tim Sullivan was right about it there. Hewas wiser than he knew. 

Mary was dressed as neatly as Joan always dressed for her work withthe sheep. And she wore a little black crucifix about her neck onanother ribbon which she had no need to conceal. When she touched itshe smiled and smiled, and not for the comfort of the little cross, Mackenzie understood, but in tenderness for what lay beneath it, andfor the shepherd lad who gave it. There was a beauty in it for himthat made the glad day brighter. 

This fresh, sprightly generation would redeem the sheeplands, andchange the business of growing sheep, he said. The isolation would goout of that life; running sheep would be more like a business than apenance spent in heartache and loneliness. The world could not comethere, of course. It had no business there; it should not come. Butthey would go to it, those young hearts, behold its wonders, read itsweaknesses, and return. And there would be no more straining of theheart in lonesomeness such as Joan had borne, and no more discontentto 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 asecret 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 wenthome?"

"No, she didn't wear my ring, Mary, but she would have worn it if I'dseen 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 ahalf-interest in at least a thousand head. "

"I didn't know that, but it will not make any difference to Joan andme. 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 sheheard it was fixed for her to marry Earl. She told dad to take hissheep and go to the devil--she was going to go away and work somewhereelse. He made her go home and stay there like a rabbit in abox--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 Maryhis hand. 

"You'll get her, and it's all right, " Mary declared, in greatconfidence. "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 andwater one time or another. But mother has ideas of her own what a kidought to have to eat. "

Mary smiled over the recollection, and Mackenzie joined her. Joanwould not grow thin with that mother on the job. 

They talked over the prospects ahead of Joan and himself in the mostcomfortable way, leaving nothing unsaid that hope could devise orcourage suggest. A long time Mackenzie remained with his littlesister, who would have been dear to him for her own sweet sake if shehad not been dearer because of her blood-tie to Joan. When he wasleaving, he said:

"If anybody gets curious about my coming over to see you, Mary, youmight let them think I'm making love to you. It would help both ofus. "

Mary turned her eyes without moving her head, looking at him acrossher 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 aflockmaster was a checkered one, and filled with more adventures, harsh and gentle, than he ever had believed belonged to hisapportionment in life. But he could not blame Tim Sullivan for placingReid 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 onewho could be led into long labors on the promise of an uncertainreward. 

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 firstbattle. Now Swan and he were quits, a blow on each side, nobody debtorany more, and Reid was away ahead of anybody who had figured in theviolence that Mackenzie had brought into the sheeplands with him as anunwelcome stranger lets in a gust of wind on a winter night. 

In spite of all this, the vocation of sheepman never appeared so fullof attractive possibilities to Mackenzie as it looked that hour. Allhis old calculations were revived, his first determination proved tohim how deeply it had taken root. He had come into the sheep countryto be a flockmaster, and a flockmaster he would be. Because he wasfighting his way up to it only confirmed him in the belief that he wasfollowing a destined course, and that he should cut a better figurein the end, somehow, than he had made at the beginning. 

Tim Sullivan thought him simple; he looked at him with undisguisedhumor in his eyes, not taking the trouble to turn his back when helaughed. And they had taken Joan away out of his hands, like agold-piece snatched from a child. But that was more to his credit thanhis disgrace, for it proved that they feared him more than theyscorned him, let them laugh as they might. 

But it was time for him to begin putting the credits over on the otherside 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 thenwhen 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 thatdog 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 afuss 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 thesheep in the morning, Dad. I've got to get busy, and keep busy if Iever make good at this game. "

Dad grunted around his pipestem, his charge being burned down to thewood, and the savor too sweet on his tongue to lose even a whiff bygiving room for a word in the door of his mouth. Presently the firefried and blubbered down in the pipe to the last atrocious smell, andthere followed the noise of more strong twist-tobacco being milledbetween the old shepherd's rasping palms. Rabbit toddled off to bedwithout a word; Dad put a match to his new charge, the light makinghim blink, discovering his curiously sheared face with its picturesquefeatures 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 thanset 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 notaway off. "

"She looks soft when you first glance her, but she's as deep as awell. Mary ain't the build of a girl that fools a man and throws himdown. Now, you take Joan, a kind of a high-headed touch-me-not, withthat gingerbread hair and them eyes that don't ever seem to be infifty-five mile of you when you're talkin' to her. I tell you, the manthat marries her's got trouble up his sleeve. He'll wake up somemorning 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 hilllike a breachy cow calculatin' on how much better the grazin'd be ifshe could hop the fence and go tearin' off over there. Joan ain't thekind 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 knowwomen if any man does. "

"Well, neither one of 'em ain't a woman in the full meanin' of theword, " Dad reflected, "but they've got the marks on 'em of whatthey'll turn out to be. The man that marries Mary he'll play safe; thefeller that gits Joan takes on a gamble. If she ever does marry Reidhe'll not keep her seven months. Shucks! I married a red-headed womanone time back in Oklahomey, and that blame woman run off with ahorse-doctor inside of three months. I never did hear tell of thatfool woman any more. "

"I don't agree with you on the way you've got Joan sized up, nodifference if your wife did run off with a horse-doctor. Her hairain'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 andhave your hand read. You got away off on Reid, holdin' up for himagin' my judgment when he first come here on the range--don't youremember?"

"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 usfellers that's batted around among 'em all our lives, and you shut upwith a houseful of kids teachin' 'em cipherin' and spellin'. I neverdid see a schoolteacher in my life, man or woman, that you couldn'ttake on the blind side and beat out of their teeth, not meanin' anydisrespect 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 youstrong, 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 handread 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 adark 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 wasfated. "

"Everybody's fated; we're all branded. "

"I've heard it said, and I'm beginnin' to believe it. Well, I don'tknow 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 maybeshe'll treat me better'n a stranger would. "

"Don't you have any doubt about it in the world. It was a lucky dayfor you when Rabbit found you and saved you from the Four Cornerswidow. "

"Yes, I expect that woman she'd 'a' worked me purty hard--she had adrivin' eye. But a feller's got one consolation in a case where hiswoman ribs him a little too hard; the road's always open for him toleave, and a woman's nearly always as glad to see a man go as he is togit away. "

"There's no reason why it shouldn't work both ways. But fashions arechanging, Dad; they go to the divorce courts now. "

"That costs too much, and it's too slow. Walk out and leave the doorstandin' open after you; that's always been my way. They keep alookin' for you to come back for a month or two; then they marry someother 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' hadmy hand read. A man's a fool to start anything without havin' itdone. "

Dad nursed his regret in silence, his face dim in the starlight. Mackenzie was off with his own thoughts; they might have been milesapart 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 acouple of years to fill out and widen in and you'll have a girlthat'll do any man's eyes good to see. I thought for a while you hadsome 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 withsome 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 hiswatch over the sheep, feeling almost as simple as Dad and the rest ofthem believed him to be. He was too easy, he had been too easy allalong. If he had beaten Hector Hall into a blue lump that day he senthim home without his guns; if he had pulled his weapon at SwanCarlson's first appearance when the giant Swede drove his flock aroundthe hill that day, and put a bullet between his eyes, Tim Sullivan andthe rest of them would have held him in higher esteem. 

Reid would have held him in greater respect for it, also, and it mightnot have turned out so badly for Joan. He wondered how Reid wouldreceive him, and whether they would part in no greater unfriendlinessthan at present. 

Reid was not with the sheep when Mackenzie arrived where they fed. Theflock was widely scattered, as if the shepherd had been gone a longtime, the dogs seemingly indifferent to what befell, showing a spiritof insubordination and laziness when Mackenzie set them about theirwork. Mackenzie spent the morning getting the flock together, notingits diminished numbers with quickly calculating eye. 

Reid must have been leaving the sheep pretty much to themselves forthe wolves to take that heavy toll. Strange that Sullivan had notnoticed it and put a trustworthy herder in charge. But Sullivan wasmore than a little afraid to show himself for long on that part of hislease, and perhaps had not taken the time to run his eye over thesheep. It was a matter to be laid before his attention at once. Mackenzie did not want this loss charged against him as anotherexample of his unfitness to become a master over sheep on theprofit-sharing plan. 

It was past noon when Reid returned, coming riding from Swan Carlson'srange. He came only near enough to Mackenzie to see who it was, galloping on to the wagon. There he unsaddled his horse and turned itto graze, setting about immediately to get his dinner. Mackenziewaited for a summons when the meal was ready, but received none. Presently he saw that Reid had no intention of calling him in, for hewas sitting down selfishly alone. 

Mackenzie determined there was not going to be any avoidance on hispart. If unpleasantness must rise between them Reid would be the oneto set it stewing, and it looked from a distance as if this were hisintention. Mackenzie went to camp, his coat on his arm. 

Reid had finished his dinner when Mackenzie arrived. He was sitting inthe shade of some low bushes, his hat on the ground, smoking acigarette. He looked up at the sound of Mackenzie's approach, smilinga little, waving his cigarette in greeting. 

"Hello, Jacob, " he said. 

Mackenzie felt the hot blood rush to his face, but choked downwhatever hot words rose with it. But he could not suppress theindignation, the surprise, that came with the derisive hail. It seemedthat the range, vast, silent, selfish, melancholy as it was, could notkeep 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 andheard it all!"

"Oh, well enough, " said Reid, coughing huskily. 

If well enough, a little more of it would do for him, Mackenziethought, noting with surprise the change that had come over Reid sincethey last met. The improvement that had begun in him during his firstweeks on the range had not continued. Opposed to it, a declineappeared 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 ofenjoyment in life and a keenness in the pursuits of its pleasures. Reid's voice was his most valuable possession, Mackenzie knew; it wasthe vehicle that had carried him into the graces of many transitoryfriends. 

"I thought Tim had sent some old taller-heel over to let me off--Ididn't know it was you, " said Reid, lying with perfect ease. 

"Taller-heel enough, I guess, " Mackenzie returned, detached andinattentive as it seemed, his mind fixed on dinner. 

"I didn't think you'd be able to get out so soon from what Dad toldme. Been havin' some trouble with your hand?"

"It's all right now. " Mackenzie was making use of it to shake thecoffeepot, only to find that Reid had drained it to the grounds. 

"If I'd recognized you, Jacob, I'd made a double allowance, " Reidsaid, lifting the corner of his big, unfeeling mouth in a twitchinggrin. 

"You might cut out that Jacob stuff, wherever you got it, " Mackenzietold him, not much interested in it, apparently. 

"Can't you take a joke, Mackenzie?" Reid made the inquiry in surprisedvoice, 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 insilence while Mackenzie threw himself together a hasty meal. Frequently Reid coughed, always cupping his hand before his mouth asif to conceal from himself as well as others the portentous harshnessof 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. Iconcluded 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 comfortablewith me and you in camp together. "

"The road's open, Earl. "

"I wish it was open out of this damned country!" Reid complained. Inhis voice Mackenzie read the rankling discontent of his soul, wearingitself out there in the freedom that to him was not free, chafing andlonging and fretting his heart away as though the distant hills werethe walls of a prison, the far horizon its bars. 

"Sullivan wants you over at the ranch, " Mackenzie told him, moved topitying kindness for him, although he knew that it was wasted andundeserved. 

"I'd rather stay over here, I'd rather hear the coyotes howl than thatpack of Sullivan kids. That's one-hell of a family for a man to haveto marry into, Mackenzie. "

"I've seen men marry into worse, " Mackenzie said. 

Reid got up in morose impatience, flinging away his cigarette, went tothe wagon, looked in, slammed the little canvas door with its micawindow shut with a bang, and turned back. 

There seemed little of the carelessness, the easy spirit that had madehim so adaptable at first to his surroundings, which Reid had broughtwith him into the sheeplands left in him now. He was sullen anddowncast, consumed by the gnawing desire to be away out of his prison. Mackenzie studied him furtively as he compounded his coffee and set itto boil on the little fire, thinking that it required more fortitude, indeed, to live out a sentence such as Reid faced in the open thanbehind a lock. Here, the call to be away was always before a man; theleagues of freedom stretched out before his eyes. It required someholding in on a man's part to restrain his feet from taking theuntrammeled way to liberty under such conditions, more than he wouldhave believed Reid capable of, more than he expected him to be equalto much longer. 

Reid came slowly over to where he had left his hat, took it up, andstood looking at it as if he had found some strange plant or unusualflower, turning it and regarding it from all sides. It was suchstrange behavior that Mackenzie kept his eye on him, believing thatthe 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 hotand the flare of the ardent little blaze was scorching to his face. Sohe sat, silent as an Indian, looking with fixed eyes at the fire, while Mackenzie fried his bacon and warmed a can of succotash in thepan. When Mackenzie began to eat, Reid drew back from the fire to makeanother cigarette. 

"But will it pay a man, " he said ruminatively, as if turning again asubject long discussed with himself, "to put in three years at thisjust to get out of work all the rest of his life? That's all it comesto, even if I can keep the old man's money from sifting through myhands like dry sand on a windy day. The question is, will it pay a manto take the chance?"

Reid did not turn his eyes toward Mackenzie as he argued thus withhimself, nor bring his face about to give his companion a full lookinto it. He sat staring across the mighty temptation that lay spread, league on league before him, his sharp countenance sharper for thewasting it had borne since Mackenzie saw him last, his chin up, hisneck stretched as if he leaped the barriers of his discontent and rodeaway. 

"It's a long shot, Mackenzie, " he said, turning as he spoke, his faceset in a cast of suffering that brought again to Mackenzie a sweep ofpity which he knew to be a tribute undeserved. "I made a joke aboutselling out to you once, Mackenzie; but it isn't a thing a man canjoke 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 broodinglike a man stepping into the sun. He laughed, pulling his hat down onthe bridge of his nose in the peculiar way he had of wearing it. Alittle 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 giveyou Mary, " Reid said, speaking lazily, neither derision nor banter inhis way. 

"Maybe, " Mackenzie returned indifferently. 

"He'd double-cross me after I'd put in three years runnin' his damnedsheep if it wasn't for the old man's money. Tim Sullivan would pickdimes off a red-hot griddle in hell as long as the devil would standby and heat them. He's usin' his girls for bait to draw greenhorns andwork their fool heads off on promises. A man that would do that wouldsell his wife. "

Mackenzie made no comment. He was through his dinner and was fillinghis pipe, mixing some of Dad Frazer's highly recommended twist withhis own mild leaf to give it a kick. 

"He played you into the game with Joan for a bait, and then I gotshipped out here and spoiled that, " said Reid. "Now he's stringin' youon 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'sa feller over east of Carlson wants to sell out--you can get him onthe run. "

"I couldn't buy one side of a sheep, " Mackenzie replied, wondering whythis sudden streak of friendly chatter. 

Mackenzie ground Dad's twist in his palm, poured a charge of his palemixture into it, ground them again together under the heel of hisfist, 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, laughingpleasantly. 

_"It's big enough for me--hand it over!"_

Reid flipped his gun from the scabbard, his elbow pressed close to hisside as he reclined in the lazy, inoffensive pose, holding the weapondown on Mackenzie with a jerk which he must have practiced long togive 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 afalling heart that he had taken his own revolver off and hung it inthe 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, thecorners of his mouth twitching. 

Mackenzie's hands were poised one above the other, as he had suspendedhis milling operations. As quickly as the hand of a prestidigitatorflashes, Mackenzie swept the one that held the tobacco, dashing thepowdered mixture into Reid's eyes. 

Reid fired as he sprang to his feet, gasping and choking, momentarilyblinded by the fiery tobacco. Mackenzie felt the bullet lift his hairas it passed his temple, and before it was many rods on its waythrough the canvas top of the wagon he had grappled with Reid andwrenched his gun away. 

Reid had no hands for a fight, even if it had been in him to attemptit, being busy with his streaming eyes. He cursed Mackenzie as hesputtered 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 blindman, more tears streaming down his face than he had spent before inall 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 andhuman faces long enough to know a joke when he saw it in them, and hehad not seen even the shadow of a jest in the twitching mask of Reid'sunfeeling countenance as he leaned on his elbow holding his gun. 

"You were right about it a little while ago, " Mackenzie told Reid whenhe looked up with red, reproachful eyes presently; "this range isn'tbig enough for you and me. " Mackenzie jerked his hand toward thesaddle and bridle which Reid had lately taken from his horse. "Get tohell out of here!"

Reid went without protest, or word of any kind, wearing his belt andempty scabbard. Mackenzie watched him saddle and ride over the ridge, wondering if he would make a streak of it to Sullivan and tell himwhat a poor hand his school-teaching herder was at taking a joke. Curious to see whether this was Reid's intention, Mackenzie followedhim to the top of the hill. Reid's dust was all he could trace him bywhen 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 oranybody else. Carlson was a plain human brute without any sense ofhonor, or any obligation to the amenities of civilized society; Reidwas simply an unmoral sharper. 

It didn't make any difference where Reid went, or what he planned; hewould have to stay away from that camp. That Mackenzie vowed, meaningit to the last letter. Tim Sullivan would be informed of this latestpleasantry at their first meeting, also, and hear a chapter fromMackenzie's heart on the matter of Joan. 

Joan! If that leper Reid ever came near Joan, or ever blew thepollution of a word to her, he would nail him to the ground with abullet, no matter that he was in debt to him for his life. 

Mackenzie found the rifle that Sullivan had provided Reid for hisdefense under the bunk in the wagon, with ammunition enough towithstand a siege. Reid evidently had not been using the gun inpractice very much, confining his rehearsals to the quick slinging ofhis pistol, rather, as the cunning of his hand in the attemptedrobbery that afternoon seemed to prove. Not wanting Reid to have anyweapon to his hand in case he came back, Mackenzie buckled on therevolvers, hid the rifle near the wagon, and went back to guard thesheep. 

Mackenzie felt himself softening in his judgment of Reid as the daydrew toward evening. He feared he had been a little severe with him, taking his gun away and sending him off, surly and vindictive. Perhapsit was only a joke, as Reid had protested, although there had been noglimmer of jest in his eyes when he had slung out his gun. 

Still, the boy was hardly responsible, oppressed by his load ofdissatisfaction, harrassed and disturbed by that unbalancing ailmentthey called the lonesomeness. If he had come at it right, Mackenziereflected, he could have had a hundred dollars or so, even though instaking 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 hewanted 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 trulydangerous man to set free to prey upon society when his term wasdone. 

But Reid never would remain to finish his three years of penancethere. Joan had seen it, even before his malady had fastened upon himso deeply. It might be a merciful deed to finance his going, and speedhim toward the land of his desire. But how he would live in Mexicowould be another matter. Perhaps he would work. At any event, he wouldbe free. 

Mackenzie had ranged his flock a considerable distance from the wagon, keeping to the hilltops above the sheep, according to the custom ofherders. He was sitting in a gully, his back against the bank, feelinga weariness over him that he blamed mainly to the weight of therevolvers and cartridge belt in his weakened state, when he saw Reidcoming 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 whichhe traveled. Mackenzie got to his feet, his weariness gone on thesurge of concern that thrilled him. Hector Hall had come to collecthis outstanding account at last. 

And Reid was unarmed. Because of this he had been forced to flee beforehis enemy like a coward, against his nature, to his humiliation, Mackenzie knew. He should not have allowed Reid to leave camp withouthis gun, he would not have done it if he had reflected a moment onthe risk of going unarmed when there was one abroad on the range whosought his life. If Reid should fall, Mackenzie felt he would be anaccessory to the crime. 

Two men were pursuing Reid. They drew up a moment on the hilltop, thencame down the long slope at reckless speed, not wasting any moreammunition at that distance, which was not above two hundred yards, but dividing to cut off Reid's retreat, draw in on him then, and makean end of it at close range. 

Reid halted at the wagon, where he made a hasty search for the riflewithout dismounting, hidden for a moment from his pursuers. He was toofar away to hear Mackenzie's shouted directions for finding the gun. On again toward Mackenzie he came, halting a little way along to lookback at the men who were maneuvering to cut off any swerving orretreat 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 theammunition with him, each of them take a man, and fight it out. ButReid sat straight in the saddle, looking back at the two who camepressing on, seeming to fear them less than he hated the humiliationof seeking shelter under Mackenzie's protection. Mackenzie understoodhis feeling in the matter, and respected Reid for it more than foranything he ever had done. 

While Mackenzie was yet a hundred yards from Reid he saw him swingfrom the saddle and shelter himself behind his horse. Hall and hiscompanion were standing off warily, a good pistol shot from Reid, distrustful of this sudden change in his tactics, apparently believinghe 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, thestranger circling to come behind Mackenzie, Hall moving a littlenearer to Reid, who kept his horse before him with the craft of anIndian. 

Hall stood a little while, as if waiting for Reid to fire, then rodeforward, throwing a stream of lead as he came. Reid's horse reared, ran a few rods with head thrown wildly high, its master clinging tothe bit, dragging over shrub and stone. Suddenly it collapsed forwardon 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 wideand cautious circuit to get behind Mackenzie now dismounted and beganfiring across his saddle. Mackenzie turned, a pistol in each hand, indecisive a moment whether to return the fellow's fire or rushforward and join Reid behind the breastworks of his beast. 

The stranger was nearer Mackenzie by many rods than Hall, but still sofar away that his shots went wide, whistling high over Mackenzie'shead, or kicking dirt among the shrubs at either hand. Hall wascharging down on Reid again, but with a wariness that held him off adistance of comparative safety. 

In the moment that he paused there, considering the best and quickestmove to make to lessen Reid's peril, the thought shot to Mackenzielike a rending of confusing clouds that it was not so much Reid'speril as his own. These men had come to kill him; their sighting Reidon the way was only an incident. It was his fight, and not Reid's, forReid was safe behind his horse, lying along its body close to theground like a snake. 

This understanding of the situation cleared the air tremendously. Where he had seen in confusion, with a sense of mingling and turningbut a moment before, Mackenzie now beheld things with the sharpness ofself-interest, calculating his situation with a comprehensiveappraisement of every yard that lay between him and his enemies. Hewas steady as a tree, light with a feeling of relief, of justificationfor his acts. It was as if putting off the thought that he was goinginto this fight for Earl Reid had taken bonds from his arms, leavinghim free to breathe joyously and strike with the keenness of a man whohas a wild glory in facing tremendous odds. 

All in a moment this clearing of brain and limb came to him, settinghim up as if he had passed under an icy torrent and come out refreshedand clear-eyed into the sun. He bent low behind a shrub and rusheddown the hillside toward the man who stood reloading his pistol, hishat-crown showing above the saddle. 

Reid was all right back there for a little while, he knew; Hall wouldhold off a bit, not knowing what he might meet by rushing in withprecipitation. This one first, then Hall. It was not Reid's fight; itwas his fight, Reid but an incident in it, as a sheep might runbetween the combatants and throw its simple life in peril. 

The fellow behind the horse, too sure of his safety, too contemptuousof this shepherd schoolmaster whose notorious simplicity had goneabroad in the sheeplands exciting the rough risibilities of men, wascareless of whether his target stood still or ran; he did not lift hiseyes from the reloading of his gun to see. And in those few preciousmoments 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 horsesquatted, trembling, snorted its alarm, trampled in panic, lifting acloud of dust. And into this rising dust Mackenzie sent his lead, notseeing where it struck, quickly emptying one revolver, quicklyshifting weapons from hand to hand, no pause in his hot assault. 

 The stranger cursed his frightened horse, both hands busy with thebeast to stay it from plunging away and leaving him exposed tosomething he had not counted on meeting. Mackenzie pushed on, firingat every step. The horse partly turned, head toward him, partly baringthe scoundrel who was that moment flinging his leg over the saddle toseek a coward's safety. It was a black mare that he rode, a white starin its forehead, and now as it faced about Mackenzie, not thirty feetaway, threw a bullet for the white spot between the creature's eyes. It reared, and fell, coming down while its rider's leg still layacross the saddle, his other foot held in the stirrup. 

A moment Mackenzie stood, the smoking pistol in his hand, leaningforward like a man who listened into the wind, his broad hat-brimblown back, the smoke of his firing around him. The horse lay still, its rider struggling with one leg pinned under it, the other acrossthe saddle, the spur of that foot tearing the dead creature's flesh indesperate 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 ofhis peace and took away his guns, leaving him imploring mercy andassistance, the dead horse across his leg. 

Mackenzie was aware of shooting behind him all this time, but only asone is conscious of something detached and immaterial to the thing hehas in hand. Whether Hector Hall was riding down on him in defense ofhis friend, or whether he was trying to drive Reid from the shelter ofhis fallen horse, Mackenzie did not know, but from that moment Hallwas his business, no matter where he stood. 

Putting out of the fight the man who lay pressed beneath his horse hadbeen a necessary preliminary, a colorless detail, a smoothing away ofa small annoyance in the road of that hour's great work. For the endwas justified beforehand between him and Hall. It was not a matter ofvengeance, but of justice. This man had once attempted to take awayhis life by the most diabolical cruelty that human depravity coulddevise. 

This passed through Mackenzie's thoughts like the heat of a fire thatone runs by as he swung round to face Hall. Apparently unconcerned bywhat had befallen his friend, Hall was circling Reid's dead horse, holding tenaciously to his intention of clearing the ground before himas he advanced. Reid snaked himself on his elbows ahead of his enemy'sencircling movement, keeping under cover with admirable coolness andcraft. 

Mackenzie ran forward, throwing up his hand in command to Hall, challenging him as plainly as words to turn his efforts from adefenseless man to one who stood ready to give him battle. Hall drewoff a little from Reid's concealment, distrustful of him even thoughhe must have known him to be unarmed, not caring to put a man behindhis back. Still drawing off in that way, he stopped firing to slipmore cartridges into his automatic pistol, watching Mackenzie's rapidadvance, throwing a quick eye now and then toward the place where Reidlay out of his sight. 

Hall waited in that sharp pose of watchful indecision a moment, thenspurred his horse with sudden bound toward Reid. He leaped the carcassof Reid's animal at a gallop, firing at the man who huddled closeagainst its protection as he passed over. Mackenzie could not see Reidfrom where he stood, but he felt that his peril was very great, hischances almost hopeless in the face of Hall's determination to haverevenge on his brother's slayer in defiance of what might come tohimself when the thing was done. 

Mackenzie ran a little nearer, and opened fire. Heedless of him, Hallswung his horse back at a gallop, firing at Reid as he advanced. Reidcame rolling round the carcass of his horse to place himself in theprotection of the other side, so nimble in his movements thatMackenzie drew a breath of marveling relief. If Reid was touched atall by Hall's vicious rain of lead, it could be only slightly. 

Hall's headlong charge carried him several rods beyond Reid, the horsespringing high over the barrier. Again Reid escaped, again he camerolling 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 thecloud of dust to ride once more upon his defenseless enemy, it was toface Mackenzie, who had run up and posted himself directly in hisway. 

Reid's dead horse lay not more than twenty feet behind Mackenzie. Hector Hall leaned glowering at him through the dust perhaps twicethat distance ahead. A moment Hall leaned in that way, then camespurring on, holding his fire as if his purpose were to ride Mackenziedown in contempt. 

Mackenzie fired, steady against the onrushing charge as a rock in thedesert wind. He was thrilled by a calm satisfaction in meeting thisman who had contemned and despised him, whose cold eyes spoke insults, whose sneering lips were polluted with the blasphemies of his filthyheart. 

When Hall returned the fire he was so close that the flame of hisweapon struck hot against Mackenzie's face. Mackenzie leaped aside toavoid the horse, untouched save by the spurting flame, emptying hispistol into Hall's body as he passed. A little way on Hall wheeled thehorse and came riding back, but the blindness of death was in hisface, his rapid shots fell wild among the shrubs at Mackenzie's side. 

On past Mackenzie the horse galloped, Hall weaving in the saddle, thereins hanging free, his hands trailing at his sides. Mackenzie put hispistol in the scabbard with slow and deliberate hand, feeling that thebattle was done, watching Hall as he rode blindly on. 

A little way, and the horse, whether through some wild caprice of itsown, or some touch of its dying rider, circled back, galloping downthe long slope toward the man who had come to help Hall adjust hisdifferences with these contemptible sheepmen. Hall's hat fell off ashis head sank forward; he bent, grappling his horse's mane. So for alittle way he rode, then slipped from the saddle, one foot entangledin 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 mercifulhaste was useless; Hall was beyond the torture of dragging at astirrup. 

Mackenzie released the foot with a sad gentleness, composed the dustybody, drew the reins over the horse's head and left it standing besideits dead master. Hall's companion in the raid was still strugglingunder his fallen horse, and from the vigor of his attempts to freehimself Mackenzie gathered that he was not much hurt. 

A moment's work set the scoundrel on his feet, where he limped on awhole bone, whole enough to ride on many a rascally foray again. Mackenzie said nothing to him, only indicated by a movement of thehand what he was to do. Limping painfully, the fellow went to Hall'shorse, lifted his friend's body across the empty saddle, mountedbehind 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 rideaway. So for a little he stood, as if he debated some movement againstthe man who had sought his life with such hot cruelty but a fewminutes past, not turning to see whether Mackenzie came or went. Presently he took his coat from the saddle, slung it over hisshoulder, looked after the retreating man again, as if debatingwhether to follow. 

Mackenzie came up, Reid's pistol in his hand. This he offered, apologyin his manner, but no words on his lips. Reid took it, silent andunmoved, shoved it into his scabbard, walked away. 

From the manner of his going, Mackenzie knew he was not hurt. It was acomfortable thought for Mackenzie that his interference had at leastsaved Reid a wound. Doubtless he had saved him more. In that lastcharge, Hector Hall would have had his life. 

A part of his tremendous obligation to Reid was paid, and Reidunderstood it so. But the knowledge of it seemed to gall him, sodeeply, indeed, that it appeared he rather would have died than haveMackenzie succeed in his defense. 

Reid stopped where Hector Hall's hat had fallen. He turned it with hisfoot, looking down at it, and presently picked it up. He made as ifhe would put it on, but did not, and passed on carrying it in hishand. 

Mackenzie wondered what his plans might be, and whether he ought to goafter him and try to put their differences out of the way. Reid didnot stop at the wagon. He continued on to the top of the hill, defiantof the man who rode away with Hall's body, his pistol again on histhigh. There he stood looking this way and that a little while, as aman looks who is undecided of his road. Then he passed on. WhenMackenzie reached the spot where Reid had stood, he was no longer insight. 

Mackenzie thought Reid might be going deliberately to seek the battlefrom which he had been obliged so lately to flee unarmed. Mackenziewaited on the eminence, listening for the sounds of fight, ready tohasten to Reid's assistance if he should stand in need of it again. Sothe last hour of the afternoon passed. Mackenzie turned back to hisflock at length, believing Reid had gone on his way to the freedom hehad weighed against his inheritance only a few hours before. 

It was just as well then as another day, Mackenzie reflected, as heturned the sheep from their grazing. Not that he had meant to driveReid out of the country when he told him to go, but it was just aswell. 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-dollarpenance, and the loss of three years' unpaid labor? Not kindly, certainly. It probably would result in the collapse of all Mackenzie'sown 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, asReid had killed in defense of his. 

From the first hour he set his feet on the trail to the sheep countrythis culmination of his adventures had been shaping. Little by littleit had been building, the aggression pressed upon him, his attitudeall 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 meetit with a club in the hand. 

That was the way it looked to John Mackenzie that evening. Troublewill 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 aheavy thing to carry on his soul. 

This depressing shadow thickened over him as the sun drew down tothe hills, and he went working his flock slowly to the night'sbedding-ground. The complaint of the lambs, weary from following andfrisking the day through, was sadder to him than it ever had fallenon his ears before. It seemed a lament for the pollution of his handsin human blood, moving a regret in his heart that was harder to bearthan fear. 

Mackenzie sat above the resting sheep as the shadows drew toward himbetween the hills, a glow as of a distant city where the sun went downan hour past. The rifle was beside him, his pistol in his belt, forregret of past violence would not make the next hour secure. Iftrouble should lift its head in his path again, he vowed he would killit before it could dart and strike. 

No, it was not a joke that Reid had pulled on him that afternoon. Reidhad meant to rob him, urged on to the deed by his preying discontentand racking desire to be away. Reid was on his way out of the countrynow, and if they caught him and took him before the judge who hadsentenced him to this unique penance, he would have the plea thatMackenzie drove him out, and that he fled to save his life. 

That might be sufficient for the judge; certainly it would be enoughfor Tim Sullivan. Sullivan would bring him back, and Mackenzie wouldbe sent to pick up the trail of his fortunes in another place, withyears 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 afellow-creature's life. It bore on him heavily now that the heat ofhis blood had subsided; it stood before him an awful accusation. Hehad killed a man! But a man who had forfeited his right to live, a manwho had attempted to take his life in the past, who had come againthat day to hunt him like a coyote on the hills. The law wouldexculpate him; men would speak loudly of his justification. But itwould stand against him in his own conscience all his days. Simple forthinking of it that way, he knew; simple as they held him to be in thesheep country, even down to old Dad Frazer, simplest among men. 

He had no desire in his mouth for supper, although he set aboutpreparing it, wanting it over before dark. No need of a blaze or aglow of a coal to guide anybody that might be prowling around to dropa bullet into him. That surly rascal who bore Hector Hall's body awaymight come back to do it, but the man who stood first in his thoughtsand caution was Earl Reid, out there somewhere in the closing nightwith 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 satup, a chill in his bones, for he had fallen asleep on watch beside theashes of his supper fire. He listened, the rack of sleep clearing fromhis brain in a breath. 

It was Dad Frazer, and the hour was past the turn of night. Mackenzieanswered, the sound of a horse under way immediately following. Dadcame riding down the hill with loose shale running ahead of him, insuch 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 thedistance between the camps on foot. "Mary come over on her horse alittle while ago and rousted me out. She said somebody just passed hercamp, 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 saidJoan wouldn't be trapsin' around this time of night with nobody, butif she did happen to be she could take care of herself. But Mary saidshe sounded like she was fussin' and she thought something must bewrong, and for me to hop her horse and come hell-for-leather and tellyou. "

"How many--which way were they going?"

"Two horses, Mary said, from the sound, but she didn't hear nobody'svoice 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 ofher '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 Dadlistening 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 whereMackenzie was running his sheep. He held his course in that directionas he rode break-neck up hill and down. He had little belief that itcould have been Joan who passed Mary's camp, yet he was disturbed byan anxiety that made his throat dry, and a fear that clung to him likegarments wet in the rain. 

Reid could not have anything to do with it in any event, Joan orsomebody else, for Reid was horseless upon the range. But if Joan, hewas at entire loss to imagine upon what business she could be ridingthe country that hour of the night. Joan had no fear of either nightor the range. She had cared for her sheep through storm and dark, penetrating all the terrors that night could present, and she knew therange too well to be led astray. It must have been a voice that Maryhad heard in a dream. 

Mackenzie felt easier for these reflections, but did not check hispace, holding on toward Carlson's house in as straight a line as hecould draw. He recalled curiously, with a prickling of renewedanxiety, that he always expected to be called to Carlson's house forthe last act in the sheeplands tragedy. Why, he did not know. Perhaps he had not expected it; maybe it was only a psychologicallightning-play of the moment, reflecting an unformed emotion. Thatlikely was the way of it, he reasoned. Surely he never could havethought of being called to Carlson's ranch. 

In that fever of contradiction he pushed on, knees gripping his horsein the tensity of his desire to hasten, thinking to hold the animal upfrom stumbling as an anxious rider in the night will do. Now hebelieved it could not have been Joan, and felt a momentary ease; nowhe 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 downinto his eyes. 

From the side that he approached Carlson's house his way lay through avalley at the end, bringing him up a slight rise as he drew near thetrees that stood thickly about the place. Here he dismounted and wenton, leading his horse. A little way from the house he hitched hisanimal among the trees, and went forward in caution, wary of a dogthat might be keeping watch beside the door. 

There was no moon. The soft glow of a few misty, somnolent stars gaveno light among the trees, no light shone from the house. Mackenzierecalled the night he had first approached that door and come suddenlyaround the corner into the pale beam of Hertha Carlson's lantern. Nowthe 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 underhis strain. One who has not approached danger and uncertainty, listening and straining in the night, cannot conceive the exquisitepitch to which human nerves can be attuned. The body then becomes atower set with the filaments of wireless telegraphy, each of thethousand nerves straining forth to catch the faintest sound, the mostshadowy disturbance. Even premonitions become verities; indistinctpropositions tangible facts. 

In that exalted pitch of nervous sensibility Mackenzie stoodlistening, fifty feet or less from the kitchen door. No sound, but asharp 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 afoot shifted on the floor. Almost immediately someone began walking upand down the room, pushing a chair aside as if to clear the way. Mackenzie remembered the window high in the wall beside the stove andwent hastily around the house to it, restraining himself from burstingprecipitately into something which might be no concern of his orwarrant his interference at all. It seemed so preposterous even tosuspect that Joan was there. 

Reid was pacing up and down the room, a lantern standing on the floorbeside the chair from which he had risen. The place had beenreadjusted since the ruin that fell over it in Mackenzie's fight withSwan; the table stood again in the place where he had eaten his supperon it, the broken leg but crudely mended. 

Reid seemed to be alone, from what of the interior of the houseMackenzie could see, shifting to bring the door of the inner room toview. 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 greatuncertainty. He walked with bent head, now turning it sharply as hestood listening, now going on again with hands twitching. He threwdown his cigarette and stamped it, went to the kitchen door, opened itand stood listening. 

A little while Reid stood at the door, head turned, as if he harkenedfor the approach of somebody expected. When he turned from the door heleft it open, rolled a cigarette, crossed to the door of the innerroom, where he stood as if he debated the question of entering. Alittle while in that uncertain, hesitant way; then he struck a matchon the door and turned again to his pacing and smoking. 

Mackenzie almost decided to go to the open door and speak to Reid, andlearn whether he might be of assistance to him in his evident stress. He was ready to forgive much of what had passed between them, blamingit to Reid's chafing against the restraint that was whetting him downto a bone. 

Mackenzie felt now that he had not handled Reid in the right way. Reidwas not of the slow, calculative, lead-balanced type of himself. Hewas a wolf of civilization, to whom these wilds were more galling thanthe bars of a prison. The judge who had agreed to this sentence hadread deeply in the opaque soul of the youth. 

Prison would not have been much of a penance for Reid. There he wouldhave found intrigue, whispering, plottings; a hundred shadowydiversions to keep his perverted mind clear and sharp. Here he metonly the silence of nature, the sternest accuser of a guilty soul. Reid could not bear the accusation of silence. Under it his mind grewirritable with the inflammation of incipient insanity. In a littlewhile it would break. Even now he was breaking; that was plain in hisdisordered eyes. 

Still Mackenzie hesitated to speak to him, watching him as he wentwith increasing frequency to the open door to listen. It was not hisaffair; Joan could not be there. Even if she were there, she must havecome for a purpose good and justifiable, and of her own free will. Butshe was not there, and Reid was waiting for somebody to come. SwanCarlson or his wife, it must be, and what business they had beforethem in this unrighteous hour Mackenzie could not imagine. But plainlyit had nothing to do with Joan. 

Mackenzie's thoughts reverted to the night he came to that cabin amongthe trees, guided thither by the plaintive melody of Hertha Carlson'ssong. What a fool he had been to linger on there that night waiting tosee Swan, in the mistaken kindness to the woman the wild fellow hadmade his slave. If he had gone on that night, leaving the still watersof trouble unstirred, he would have walked in peace through hisapprenticeship. Surely his crowding of trouble at Swan Carlson's doorthat night was the beginning of it all. 

There was that door closed now on the inner room; on that night itstood open, the long chain that bound the Swede's wife running throughit from the staple driven into the log. Mackenzie had not noticed thethickness of the door's planks that night, or the crudity of itsconstruction. The handiwork of Swan Carlson was proclaimed from thatdoor; it was rough and strong, like himself, without finish, looselyjoined. Its planks were oak; great nails in them marked the Z of itsbrace. 

Then Mackenzie turned his eyes upon Reid again. Reid went back to theinner door, pushed it, tried it with his foot. It seemed to befastened within. Perhaps there was a reason for its strength; maybeSwan kept his crude treasures locked there in that small stronghold oflogs while he roamed the range after his sheep. Reid did not appeargreatly interested in the door, or what lay behind it. He turned fromit almost at once, drew his chair in front of it, sat down, his righthand toward Mackenzie, the lantern light strong on the lower part ofhis body, his face in shadow from the lantern's top. Mackenziequickened with a new interest, a new speculation, when he saw thatReid's holster hung empty at his belt. 

At once Mackenzie decided to speak to Reid, certain that he had beenthrough some misadventure in which he had suffered loss. He drew awayfrom the window, going around the front part of the house to come tothe kitchen door, thinking it might be wise to know the way the landlay around those premises. 

This part of the house was little larger than the shack of boards thathad been built to it. There was no opening in its solid log walls, neither of window or door save alone the door opening into thekitchen. The place was a vault. 

Somebody was approaching, riding rapidly up the valley. There was morethan one horse, Mackenzie could well make out as he stood at thecorner of the house, listening. He saw Reid's shadow fall in the lightthat spread through the open door, and turned back to keep his watchat 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, somebusiness of his own was drawing to a head in that lonely cabin amongthe whispering trees. 

Reid took up the lantern, stood a moment as if indecisive, placed iton the stove. Not satisfied with the way the light of it struck himthere, apparently, he removed it and stood it in a corner. Whoever wascoming, Reid did not want it known at a glance that his scabbard wasempty. Mackenzie pressed a little nearer the window. When a manprepared 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 hisguests. The riders were among the trees; coming on more slowly. Nowthey stopped, and Reid turned to light a fresh cigarette. The flash ofthe match showed his face white, hat pulled down on his brows, histhin, long gamester's fingers cupped round the blaze. 

There fell a moment of silence, no sound of word, no movement of horseor foot upon the ground. Insects among the trees were grinding theirscythes for tomorrow's reaping, it seemed, whirring in loud, harshchorus such as one never heard out on the grazing lands. 

Now the sound of footsteps approaching the door. Reid came back intothe room, where he stood drawing a deep breath of smoke like a mandrinking 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, handsomeface. Behind him stood his woman, a white wimple bound on her foreheadlike a nun. 

CHAPTER XXVIII

SWAN CARLSON LAUGHS

"So, you are here?" said Swan, standing in the door, looking about himas if he had entered an unfamiliar place. 

"Didn't you look for me?" Reid returned. He stood between Carlson andthe closed inner door, foot on a rung of the chair in which he latelyhad 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 therecollection of old sufferings there. Swan reached out, grasped herwrist, drew her roughly inside, pointed to a chair. The woman satdown, her eyes distended in fright, her feet drawn close to the chairas if to hide them from the galling chain that she had dragged so manyweary 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 oncegave words:

"Where's your woman?"

"Where's the money?" Reid countered, putting out his hand. "You threwme down after I delivered you three hundred sheep--you didn't comeacross with a cent--on the plea that one thief couldn't collect fromanother. All right, Swan; we'll forget the sheep deal, but this isanother matter. Put your money in my hand; then we'll talk. "

"Is she in there?" Swan pointed to the door behind Reid, half risingfrom his chair. 

Reid put his hand to his empty holster, his body turned from Carlsonto conceal his want of a weapon. Carlson jerked his head in highdisdain, resumed his chair, his great hand spread on the table. 

Mackenzie stepped back from the window, leveling his pistol at Reid'shead. Joan was the subject of this infamous barter. 

A moment Mackenzie's finger stiffened to send a bullet into Reid'sbrain, for he considered only that such depravity was its own warrantof death. But Reid was unarmed, and there was something in hisattitude that seemed to disclose that it was a bluff. Joan was notthere. 

Joan was not there. She would not remain silent and unresisting, shutin a room while a cold-blooded scoundrel bargained to deliver her fora price like a ewe out of his flock. Reid was playing to even thedeceit Carlson had put over on him in dealing for the stolen sheep. Itwas 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 andexecuting it with summary hand. 

"Come across with the money before we go any further, " said Reid, firmin his manner, defiantly confident in his bearing. "I've got to getout of this country before morning. "

"I wouldn't give five hundred dollars for her, " Swan declared. "How doI know she'd stay with me? She might run off tomorrow if I didn't havea chain on her. "

Reid said nothing. He backed a little nearer the door as if he had itin mind to call the negotiations off. Swan looked at him with chinthrust 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 callattention to her where she cowered in her chair--"fixed up to meet youlike 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 therange. "

"What do you care? You don't want her. "

"Sure I don't, " Swan agreed heartily; "if I did I'd 'a' choked yourneck 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 betrayedthe panic that was coming over him on account of this threatenedmiscarriage of his plans. Mackenzie was convinced by Reid's mannerthat Swan had read him right. Joan was not there. 

The thought that Joan would accompany Reid in the night to SwanCarlson's house on any pretext he could devise in his crafty mind wasabsurd. It was all a bluff, Reid playing on Swan's credulity to inducehim to hand over the money, when he would make a dash for the door andride away. 

Mackenzie stood close to the window, pistol lifted, thinking it allout between Reid's last word and Carlson's next, for the mind canbuild a castle while the heart is pausing between throbs. 

"My woman for yours, that's a fair trade, " said Swan. "I don't want toput no money in a wild colt that maybe I couldn't break. Open the doorand bring her to me, and take my woman and go. "

"Nothing doin', " said Reid, regaining his nonchalance, or at any ratecontrol 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 thepapers 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 thedoor!"

Carlson got up, towering above Reid in his great height. He took offhis hat and flung it on the table, stood a little while bendingforward in his peculiar loose droop with arms swinging full length athis sides. Reid backed away from him, standing with shoulders againstthe 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 Icome in the door you didn't have no gun. I wouldn't fight a fellerlike you--you couldn't stand up to me like that other feller done herein this house one night. "

Swan looked round the room, the memory of that battle like a lightupon his stony face. He stood in silence, turning his head slowly, asif he found a pleasure in the stages of the past battle as recalled tohim by the different locations in the place. 

"You wanted me to kill that feller so he couldn't take your woman awayfrom you, didn't you?" Swan said, contemptuously. "Over there that dayme and you made that joke on him runnin' my sheep over into his. Buthe didn't take that joke--what? He stood up to me and fought me likean old bear, and he'd 'a' whipped me another time if it hadn't beenfor them dogs helpin' me. You bet your hat he would! Yes, and then youcome up, and you said to me: 'Soak him another one!' And I looked atyou, 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, andyou'll not do it, and no man ain't a goin' to do it! He's the only manon this range that can stand up to me, ' I told you, 'and I'm goin' tosave him to fight!' That's what I said to you. Well, he'll come afterme when I take his woman away from him--he'll come after me so hardhe'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 himthis night. "

Reid drew away from him, seeming to contract upon himself against thedoor, and whether Swan read it Mackenzie could not tell, but he couldsee from the window the sickness of fear spread over Reid's paleface. 

"You ain't got no gun on you, " Swan mocked, taking joy from thatmoment. "Hell! my old woman can lick you, and I'm goin' to make her doit. Then I'll take that feller's woman away from you and kick you tohell out of here!"

Swan turned to Hertha, who had left her chair on his first threateningmove toward Reid. She had advanced a little way into the room, a wildfury in her face against the man who had bargained to bring anotherwoman between her and her fierce, harsh-handed lord. Swan took her bythe 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 clappedand stamped to urge on the dog against Mackenzie that day they foughton the range. And like a dog that has strained on a leash the womanleaped, flinging herself upon Reid with a wild, high-shrilling cry. 

Reid tried to guard his face against her fury, attempted to grappleher arms and hold her. She broke away, clawing his face, screaming hermaniacal cry. In a moment they were a whirling tangle of arms, wild-flying hair, swaying bodies bent in fierce attack and desperatedefense. The furious creature had Reid by the throat in the grip Swanhad taught her, strangling out his life. 

Reid clung to her wrists, struggling to tear her hands from histhroat, thrashing wildly about before the closed door, his headstriking it now as the woman flung him, now his shoulders as she benthim to force him to the floor. 

Swan stood by, leaning forward in a pose of deep interest, deepsatisfaction, savage enjoyment, his loose-hanging arms at his sides, his long mustaches down beside his mouth. He said nothing to encouragehis woman in her mad combat, only seemed waiting the issue, ready tolay his hand to finishing it in the event that she should fail. 

The fighting woman, still screaming above the din of their tramplingfeet, struggled to lift her knee to Reid's chest. Mackenzie turnedfrom the window to interfere, not caring to see Reid go that way, nomatter what sins lay upon his young soul. As he came running to thedoor, he saw Reid struggle to his feet, tear the mad woman's handsaway, and strike her a sharp blow in the face. 

There must have been surprising power in that slender arm, or else itsstrength was multiplied by the frenzy of the strangling man, for thewoman dropped as if she had been struck with an ax. Swan Carlson, standing there like a great oaf, opened his immense mouth andlaughed. 

Reid staggered against the wall, hands at his throat, blood streamingfrom his nostrils, bubbling from his lips as he breathed withwide-gasping mouth. He stood so a little while, then collapsed withsudden 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 thedoor--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 outas if to bar the schoolmaster's nearer approach. He bent towardMackenzie, no hostility in his manner or expression, but rather morelike a man who had made a friendly suggestion, the answer to which hewaited in pleasurable anticipation. 

Mackenzie looked at him coldly, measuring his great strength, weighinghis magnificent body down to the last unit of its power. Carlson'sshirt was open at his throat, his laced boots came to his knees overhis baggy corduroy trousers, his long red hair hung over his templesand ears. 

"No, there's been fighting enough, " Mackenzie said, thinking that Joanmust be bound and gagged if in that room. Surely she would have spokenotherwise at the sound of his voice. 

Hertha Carlson rose to her hands and knees, where she remained a spelllike a creeping child, almost at Mackenzie's feet. Reid lay where hehad sunk down, pitched forward in front of the closed door. 

"I'll open it, then, " said Swan in the same glowing eagerness. "It'llbe a game--whatever I find I'll keep!"

"Don't touch it!" Mackenzie warned, drawing a little nearer, hisweapon half out of the scabbard. 

Mrs. Carlson rose between them, tall, disheveled, dress torn open ather bosom. She seemed dazed and oblivious to what was passing, stood amoment, 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 lightover his eyes. 

"What I find will be mine, " Carlson said, almost happily. "Comeon--we'll fight like a couple of men!"

Carlson thrust his hand into the bosom of his shirt as he spoke, anddrew out a revolver with a long sweep of his mighty arm, throwing hisbody with the movement as if he rocked with a wild, mad joy. Mackenziefired 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 hiseyes again. Then he threw back his head and shouted in the mad joy ofhis wild heart, his great mouth stretched wide, his great mustachesmoving in his breath. Shouting still, as his Viking forebears shoutedin the joy of battle, the roar of his great voice going far into thenight, Swan rushed upon Mackenzie like a wounded bear. 

Mackenzie gave back before him, leaping aside, firing. Checked amoment, more by the flash of the discharge in his eyes than by thebullet, 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 burninghouse. 

Swan fell with the mad challenge on his tongue, and cried hisdefiance still as he writhed a moment on his back, turning his face tothe open door and the peace of the night at last, to die. To die ingreater heroism than he had lived, and to lie there in his might andwasted magnificence of body, one hand over the threshold dabbling inthe dark. 

Mackenzie took the lantern from the corner where Reid had set it inhis studious play for the advantage that did not come to his hand, andturned back to the closed door. Reid lay as he had fallen, Carlson'srevolver 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 roomto its corners, then went in, peering and exploring into everyshadow. 

"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, asall his fights in the sheeplands had been pushed. He might have takenSwan at his manly offer to fight hand-to-hand to see who should openthe door; or he might have allowed him to open it, and saved allviolence between them. 

And this was the end of Earl Reid's bluff to Carlson that he woulddeliver Joan to him there, bargained for and sold after the wild andlawless reasoning of the Norse flockmaster. And Swan had drawn hisweapon 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, tosee Reid where he had scrambled to his knees, Carlson's gun in onehand, the other thrown out to support his unsteady body. 

"You can have it, Earl, " Mackenzie said, with the relief in his voiceof 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 ofa switch when one rides through a thicket. He threw himself upon Reid, and held his arm while the desperate youth fired his remaining shotsinto the wall. 

Mackenzie shook Reid until he dropped the empty revolver, then tookhim by the neck and pushed him to the open door. And there the morningwas 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 alittle while for him to speak, holding him harshly by the collar. 

"Well, there's the road out of this country, " Mackenzie said, seeinghe would not speak. "This is the last trick you'll ever try to throwhere on me or anybody else. I suppose you came here on one ofCarlson's horses; go and get it, and when you start, head south. "

Mackenzie felt the leg of his trousers wet from the blood of hiswound, and began to have some concern lest an artery had been cut. Butthis he put off investigating until he heard Reid ride out to the dimroad in front of Carlson's cabin, and go his way out of the sheeplandsto whatever destiny lay ahead. 

Then Mackenzie looked himself over, to find that it was not a seriouswound. He bound up the hurt with his handkerchief, and turned his faceaway from that tragic spot among the cottonwoods, their leaves movingwith 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 himon, " said Joan. 

"I thought that must have been the way of it, " Mackenzie said, sighingas if his last trouble had left him. 

"When he tried to make me believe I wasn't within seven miles of DadFrazer's camp I got my suspicions up. The idea of that little town rattrying to mix me up on my range! Well, I was a little off on myestimate of where the wagons were, but that was because they'd beenmoved 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 thefight with Hector Hall and wanted me?"

"I don't know, Joan, " Mackenzie said, lying like the "kind of agentleman" he was. 

"I thought maybe the little fool wanted to make me marry him so hecould 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 MattHall. "

"I think he must have been, Joan. It's over--let's forget it if wecan. "

"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, undergoingtreatment for the bullet wound in his thigh. He had arrived at DadFrazer's camp at sunrise, weak from the drain of his hurt, to findJoan waiting for him on the rise of the hill. She hurried him intoRabbit's hands, leaving explanations until later. They had come to theend of them now. 

But Mackenzie made the reservation of Reid's atrocious, insane schemein bringing Joan from home on the pretext that the schoolmaster hadfallen wounded to death in the fight with Hector Hall, and lay callingfor her with his wasting breath. Mackenzie knew that it was better forher faith in mankind for all her future years, and for the peace ofher soul, that she should never know. 

"My dad was here a little while ago--he's gone over to put a man in totake care of your sheep, but he'll be along back here this evening. Hewants to talk some business with you, he said. "

"Well, we're ready for him, Joan, " Mackenzie said. And the look thatpassed between them, and the smile that lighted their lips, told thattheir business had been talked and disposed of already, let TimSullivan propose what he might. 

"I'll leave it to you, John, " said Joan, blushing a little, her eyesdowncast in modesty, but smiling and smiling like a growing summerday. 

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 histoes to the cot, his face as expressive of respect as if he had comeinto the presence of the dead. 

Mackenzie grinned over this great mark of respect in the flockmasterof 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 facewith a miracle. 

"You're not hurted much, lad?" he inquired, lifting his voice alittle, 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 emptieditself of a great responsibility, "you will that, and as good as a newman!"

"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 thediscussion of values and costs. But the awe of this man who wentfighting his way was still big in the flockmaster's eyes. He satleaning, elbows on thighs, mouth still open, as respectfully awed asif 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 thetruth of it from Joan all his days. Tim's face grew pale through thedeep 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 matchfor any of them town fellers--they can't put anything like that overon my little Joan. And you didn't know but she was there, locked inand bound hand and foot, lad? And you fought old Swan and laid himcold at last, hand to hand, man to man! Lord! And you done it for mylittle 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 thingthe like of that with gratitude to his last hour. And we thought youan easy-goin' man, that could be put on and wasn't able to hold yourown, " said Tim, confessing more in his momentary softness than hewould have done on reflection. 

"We thought you was only a schoolteacher, wrapped up in rhymes andbirds!"

"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 ofdealin' with other men, lettin' 'em go when you ought to knocked 'emcold, 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--nosimpleton at all. "

Tim spoke in soothing conciliation, as if he worked to salve over theold hurts of injustice, or as if he dealt with the mishap of a childto whom words were more comforting than balm. He was coming back tohis regular sheepman form, crafty, conciliatory; never advancing onefoot without feeling ahead with the other. But the new respect thathad come over him for Mackenzie could not be put wholly aside, eventhough Tim might have the disposition to do it. Tim's voice was stillsmall in his mouth, his manner softened by awe. 

"You've shown the mettle of a sheepman, " Tim said, "and more. There'llbe peace and quiet on this range now. "

"I brought nothing but trouble to it. You had peace and quiet before Icame. "

"Trouble was here, lad, but we dodged it. There wasn't a man of us hadthe courage to face it and put it down like you've done it. Carlsonand them Halls robbed me year in and year out, and stole the range Ipaid rent on from under my feet. Swan stole sheep from me all the timethat boy was runnin' them next him there--I miss about three hundredfrom the flock today. "

"Reid sold them to him, but didn't get his money. He complained aboutit to Swan last night. "

"He'd do it, " nodded Tim; "his father before him done it. It runs inthe blood of them Reids to steal. I'll have them three hundred sheepback 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 thinksomebody 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 wilddevil's dead we must be neighborly with the widow and give her achance. 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 herhere with Rabbit to care for you. Sure. She was for you, all along. Icouldn'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, " hesaid. "Let you go on with Joan in the bargain in place of Mary, andgive me three years for her, and the day you marry her I'll drive overto you a thousand sheep. "

"Nothing doing, " said Mackenzie. 

"Two years, we'll say--two instead of three, John. Joan will be herown man in two years; she'll be twenty-one. And the day you marry herI'll make it fifteen hundred sheep. "

"She's her own man now under the laws of this state, and I'm takingher without a single head of sheep. You can keep them all--Joan isenough for me. "

Tim was a greatly injured man. His face lengthened two inches, a lookof reproach came into his eyes; he seemed on the point of dissolvingin tears. 

"You're not goin' to quit me and take away my girl, the best one of myflock, my ewe lamb, my Joan? I didn't think you'd turn on me likethat, lad; I didn't think you had it in your heart!"

"You took away Joan's ewe lambs, and her buck lambs, and all herlambs, more than a thousand of them, after she'd served you throughsun and storm and earned them like a man. No, I don't think I couldtrust you two years, Mr. Sullivan; I don't believe your memory wouldhold you to a bargain that long, seeing that it would be in thefamily, especially. "

"I'll give Joan back her flock, to run it like she was runnin' it, andI'll put it in writin' with you both. Two years, we'll say, John--twoshort easy years. "

"No. "

"Don't you throw away your chances now, John, don't you do it, lad. Ifyou 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 theend of that time they'll put big in the papers at Cheyenne, and I'llhand over to you three thousand sheep, in your own name. "

"I'm not thinking as much about sheep as I was three months ago, " saidMackenzie, yawning as though he had grown tired of the subject. "Joanand 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 hisheart. 

"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 shetried. She thought she wanted to go, but I'll have hard work to gether 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'llbe comin' back!"

"Yes. Joan and I belong on the sheep range--we're both too simple andconfiding to run around loose in the world. "

Tim was looking at Mackenzie, his head tipped to one side a little inhis 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 canwelcome us or turn us away, but we'll find a place on the range, andI'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 theday you come home, for I've made a place in my heart for you that'sthe place of a son, " said Tim. 

Mackenzie knew the flockmaster had reached a point at last where hewould stand, writing or no writing, for there was the earnestness oftruth in his voice, the vibrant softness of affection. He gave theflockmaster his hand, saying no word. Tim took it between his own asif 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 fromnow or five years. You're a sheepman now, John. "

"And I'm more, " said Mackenzie, with a contented sigh. "I'm asheepwoman's man. "