Project Gutenberg's The Flockmaster ofPoison Creek, by George W. Ogden

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Title: The Flockmaster of Poison Creek

Author: George W. Ogden

Illustrator: P. V. E. Ivory

Release Date: August 11, 2009 [EBook#29668]

Language: English

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOKTHE FLOCKMASTER OF POISON CREEK ***

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Neither spoke, a daze over them, the dull shockof death’s

close passing bewildering and deep. Page 120

The Flockmaster ofPoison Creek

BY

G. W. OGDENAUTHOR OF

THE DUKE OF CHIMNEY BUTTE,THE LAND OF LAST CHANCE, Etc

FRONTISPIECE BY P. V. E. IVORY

GROSSET & DUNLAPPUBLISHERS NEW YORK

Made in the United States of America

CopyrightA. C. McClurg & Co.

1921

Published March, 1921

Copyrighted in Great Britain

CONTENTS

I The SheepCountry 1

II Swan Carlson 15III The Fight 27

IV Keeper of theFlock 34

V Tim Sullivan 49

VI Eyes in theFirelight 57

The Easiest

VII Lesson 67

VIII The Sheep-Killer 76

IX A Two-Gun Man 87

X Wild Riders ofthe Range 97

XI Hector Hall Setsa Beacon 111

XII One Comes toServe 127

XIII A Fight AlmostLost 136

XIV TheLonesomeness 149

XV Only One Jacob 160

XVI Reid Begins HisPlay 173

XVII Hertha Carlson 181XVIII Swan Carlson’s

Day 195

XIXNot Cut out for aSheepman 207

XX A MillionGallops Off 212

XXITim SullivanBreaks aContract

222

XXII Phantoms ofFever 233

XXIII ConcerningMary 239

XXIV More AboutMary 252

XXV One Man’s Joke 262

XXVI Payment onAccount

270

XXVIIA Summons inthe Night 287

XXVIII Swan CarlsonLaughs 296

XXIX Sheepman––AndMore 308

The Flockmaster ofPoison Creek

CHAPTER I

THE SHEEP COUNTRY

So John Mackenzie had put his foot uponthe road. This after he had reasoned it outas a mathematical problem, considering itas a matter of quantities alone. There wasnothing in school-teaching at sixty dollarsa month when men who had to carry arubber stamp to sign their names to theirchecks were making fortunes all aroundhim in sheep.

That was the way it looked to JohnMackenzie the morning he set out forPoison Creek to hunt up Tim Sullivan and

strike him for a job. Against theconventions of the country, he had struckout on foot. That also had been reasonedout in a cool and calculative way. Asheepherder had no use for a horse, in thefirst place. Secondly and finally, themoney a horse would represent would buyat least twelve head of ewes. Withquestioning eyes upon him when he leftJasper, and contemptuous eyes upon himwhen he met riders in his dusty journey,John Mackenzie had pushed on, his packon his back.

There was not a book in that pack. JohnMackenzie, schoolmaster, had been abondslave of books in that country for fourobscure, well-nigh profitless years, and hewas done with them for a while. The less

a sheepman knew about books, the morehe was bound to know about sheep, forsheep would be the object and aim of hisexistence. Mackenzie knew plenty ofsheepmen who never had looked into anykind of a book but a bank-deposit book intheir lives. That seemed to be educationenough to carry them very nicely along,even to boost them to the state legislature,and lift one of them to the United Statessenate. So, what was the use of worryingalong on a mission of enlightenment atsixty dollars a month?

Mackenzie had not come into the West in amissionary spirit at the beginning. He hadnot believed the youth of that section to bein any greater depths of ignorance thanelsewhere in this more or less favored

land. But from his earliest years he hadentertained romantic notions, adventurousdesires. With his normal-schoolcertificate in his breast pocket, tighttrousers on his rather long legs, a shortvest scarcely meeting them at thewaistband, he had traveled into the West,seeking romance, alert for adventure.

When he arrived at Jasper, which wasonly the inter-mountain West, and far fromthe golden coast of his most ferviddreams, he found that adventure andromance apparently had packed up andgone elsewhere years ahead of him. Therewas nothing nearer either of them inJasper than a tame gambling-joint in theback end of a saloon, where greasy,morose sheepherders came to stake

quarters on roulette and faro, whererailroaders squandered away their wages,leaving the grocerymen unpaid. And therewas no romance for John Mackenzie inany such proceeding as that.

Simple, you will see he was; open-facedand guileless as the day. Farm-bred, raw-boned, slow of speech, clear of eye, novices, no habits that pulled a man down,unless a fondness for his briar-root pipemight be so classed. But in the wayMackenzie smoked the pipe it was more inthe nature of a sacrifice to his gods ofromance than even a mild dissipation.

In the four years of his school-teaching atJasper Mackenzie slowly grew out of hisextreme rawness of appearance. His legshardened from long rambles over the hills,

his face browned like an outdoor man’s,his rustic appearance, his clabber-daysshyness, all slowly dissolved away. Butthe school board was not cognizant of anyphysical or mental strengthening in him.He was worth sixty dollars a month to thatslow-thinking body when he came toJasper; he was worth no more than sixtydollars when he threw up the job and left.

Romance and adventure had called himaway to the road at last, but the romanceof sheep-riches, the adventure offollowing a flock over the sage-gray hills.Maybe he would find it too late even toglimpse them when he arrived in the heartof the sheeplands; perhaps times hadshifted since the heavy-jowled illiterateswhom he had met in Jasper began their

careers with a few pounds of dried applesand uncommon endurance for hardships inthe open fields.

Simple, they thought him down in Jasper,in the mild simplicity of a preacher or anyman who would not fight. In theirclassification he was a neutral force, anemasculated, mild, harmless creature whoheld the child’s view of life from muchassociation with children. He often hadheard it said.

A man never could advance to notabilityin a community that rated him as mildlysimple; he would have a hard time of iteven to become notorious. Only one manthere had taken an interest in him as manto man, a flockmaster who had come intothat country twenty years before, a

schoolteacher like himself.

This man had kicked up the golden dustbefore Mackenzie’s eyes with his tales ofthe romance of the range, the romance ofsheep-riches, the quick multiplication of aband run on the increase-sharing plan.This man urged Mackenzie to join him,taking a band of sheep on shares. But hisrange was in sight of Jasper; there was noromance on his hills. So Mackenzie struckout for the headwaters of Poison Creek, tofind Tim Sullivan, notable man among thesheep-rich of his day.

It was a five-days’ journey on foot, as hecalculated it––nobody in that country everhad walked it, as far as he could learn––toTim Sullivan’s ranch on Poison Creek.Now, in the decline of the fifth day he had

come to Poison Creek, a loud, a rapid, andboisterous stream which a man couldcross in two jumps. It made a great amountof noise in its going over the boulders inits bed, as a little water in a vast arid landprobably was justified by its importancein doing. It was the first running waterMackenzie had met since leaving the BigWind, clear as if it came unpolluted by ahoof or a hand from its mountain source.

But somewhere along its course TimSullivan grazed and watered fortythousand sheep; and beyond him wereothers who grazed and watered manytimes that number. Poison Creek mightwell enough merit its name from the slaverof many flocks, the schoolmaster thought,although he knew it came from pioneer

days, and was as obscure as pioneernames usually are obscure.

And some day he would be watering histhousands of sheep along its rushing vein.That was John Mackenzie’s intent andpurpose as he trudged the dusty miles ofgray hills, with their furze of gray sage,and their gray twilights which fell with amelancholy silence as chilling as thebreath of death. For John Mackenzie wasgoing into the sheeplands to become amaster. He had determined it all bymathematical rule.

There was the experience to be gainedfirst, and it was cheaper to do that atanother man’s expense than his own. Heknew how the right kind of a man couldform a partnership with a flockmaster

sometimes; he had heard stories of suchsmall beginnings leading to largeownership and oily prosperity. Jasper hadexamples of its own; he was familiar withthem all.

Some of them began as herders on thebasis of half the increase from a statednumber of sheep not more than ten yearspast. Now they looked upon a sixty-dollars-a-month schoolteacher with theeyes of superiority, as money alwaysdespises brains which it is obliged to hire,probably because brains cannot deviseany better method of finding the necessarycalories than that of letting themselves outby the month.

Tim Sullivan needed herders; he hadadvertised for them in the Jasper paper.

Besides, Tim had the name of a man whocould see the possibilities in another. Hehad put more than one young fellow on theway of success in the twenty years he hadbeen running sheep on the Poison Creekrange. But failing to land a partnershipdeal with Sullivan, Mackenzie wasprepared to take a job running sheep bythe month. Or, should he find all avenuesto experience at another man’s expenseclosed to him, he was ready to take the sixhundred dollars saved out of his years ofbook bondage and buy a little flock of hisown. Somewhere in that wide expanse ofgovernment-owned land he would findwater and grazing, and there his prosperitywould increase.

Sheep had visited the creek lately at the

point where Mackenzie first encounteredit, but there were no dusty flocks in sightbillowing over the hills. Tim Sullivan’shouse was not to be seen any more thansheep, from the highest hill in the vicinity.It must be several miles ahead of him still,Mackenzie concluded, remembering thatPoison Creek was long. Yet he hoped hemight reach it by nightfall, for his feetwere growing weary of the untrodden waythey had borne him for a hundred and fiftymiles, more or less.

He pushed on, now and again crossing thebroad trail left by bands of sheep countingtwo or three thousand, feeling thelonesomeness of the unpeopled landsoftened by these domestic signs. Sunset,and no sight of a house; nightfall, and not

the gleam of a light to show him eitherherder’s camp or permanent domicile ofman.

Mackenzie lingered beside the clamoringwater in a little valley where theuncropped grass was lush about his feet,considering making camp there for thenight. It was a pleasant place for a land sobleak, even in summer, as that country ofhigh table-lands and rolling gray hills. Ashe started to unsling his pack he caught thedim note of somebody’s voice raised insong, and stood so, hand on the strap,listening.

The voice was faint, broken by thedistance, yet cheering because it was avoice. Mackenzie pressed up the hill,hoping to be able to thread the voice back

to its source from that eminence. As heneared the top the voice came clearer; ashe paused to listen, it seemed quite closeat hand. It was a woman singing, and thiswas the manner of her song:

Na-a-fer a-lo-o-one, na-a-fer a-lone,He promise na-fer to leafe me,Na-fer to leafe me a-lone!

The valley whence came the song wasquite dark below him, and darker for theindefinite blotch of something thatappeared to be trees. In that grove thehouse that sheltered the melancholy singermust be hidden, so completely shroudedthat not even a gleam of light escaped tolead him to the door. Mackenzie stoodlistening. There was no other sound risingfrom that sequestered homestead than the

woman’s song, and this was as doleful asany sound that ever issued from humanlips.

Over and over again the woman sang thethree lines, a silence after the last long,tremulous note which reached to thetraveler’s heart, more eloquent in itsexpression of poignant loneliness than thehopeless repetition of the song. Hegrinned dustily as he found himselfwishing, in all seriousness, that somebodywould take a day off and teach her the restof the hymn.

Mackenzie’s bones were weary of theroad, hard as he tried to make himselfbelieve they were not, and that he was atough man, ready to take and give as itmight come to him in the life of the

sheeplands. In his heart he longed for abed that night, and a cup of hot coffee togladden his gizzard. Coffee he had notcarried with him, much less a coffeepot;his load would be heavy enough withoutthem, he rightly anticipated, before hereached Tim Sullivan’s. Nothing morecheering than water out of the holes by theway had passed his lips these five days.

He could forgive the woman her song ifshe would supply some of the comforts ofthose who luxuriated in houses for just thisone night. He went on, coming soon tobarbed wire along the way, and presentlyto a gap in it that let him in among thetrees which concealed the house.

It was a small, low cabin, quite buriedamong the trees, no light showing as

Mackenzie drew near, although the voiceof the woman still rose in the plaintivemonotony of her song.

Mackenzie put as much noise into hisarrival as was possible by walkingheavily, knowing very well that a surpriseby night is not a good beginning for aclaim of hospitality. The woman musthave heard, for her song ceased in themiddle of a word. At the corner of thehouse Mackenzie saw a dim light fallingthrough an open door, into which theshadow of the woman came.

A little way from the door Mackenziehalted, hat in hand, giving the woman goodevening. She stood within the threshold afew feet, the light of the lantern hanging inan angle of the wall over her, bending

forward in the pose of one who listened.She was wiping a plate, which she heldbefore her breast in the manner of ashield, stiffly in both hands. Her eyeswere large and full of a frightenedsurprise, her pale yellow hair was hangingin slovenly abandon down her cheeks andover her ears.

She was a tall woman, thin of frame, wornand sad, but with a faded comeliness offace, more intelligence apparent in it thanis commonly shown by Scandinavianwomen of the peasant class who share thelabors and the loads of their men on theisolated homesteads of the Northwest. Shestood so, leaning and staring, her mouthstanding open as if the song had beenfrightened out so quickly that it had no

time to shut the door.

“Good evening, madam,” said Mackenzieagain.

She came out of her paralysis of fright andsurprise at the assuring sound of his voice.He drew nearer, smiling to show hisfriendly intention, the lantern light on theclose, flat curls of his fair hair, which laydamp on temples and forehead.

Tall after his kind was this traveler at herdoor, spare of flesh, hollow of cheeks,great of nose, a seriousness in his eyeswhich balanced well the marveloustenderness of his smile. Not a handsomeman, but a man whose simple goodnessshone in his features like a friendly lamp.The woman in the door advanced a timidstep; the color deepened in her pale and

melancholy face.

“I thought it was my man,” she said, hervoice soft and slow, a labored effort in itto speak without the harsh dialect soapparent in her song.

“I am a traveler, Mackenzie is my name,on my way to Tim Sullivan’s sheep ranch.My grub has run low; I’d like to get somesupper if you can let me have a bite.”

“There is not much for a gentleman toeat,” said she.

“Anything at all,” Mackenzie returned,unslinging his pack, letting it downwearily at his feet.

“My man would not like it. You haveheard of Swan Carlson?”

“No; but I’ll pay for it; he’ll have no rightto kick.”

“You have come far if you have not heardof Swan Carlson. His name is on the windlike a curse. Better you would go on, sir;my man would kill you if he found you inthis house.”

She moved a step to reach and lay theplate on a table close at hand. As shelifted her foot there was the sharp clink ofmetal, as of a dragging chain. Mackenziehad heard it before when she steppednearer the door, and now he bent to lookinto the shadow that fell over the floorfrom the flaring bottom of the lantern.

“Madam,” said he, indignantly amazed bythe barbarous thing he beheld, “does thatman keep you a prisoner here?”

“Like a dog,” she said, nodding her untidyhead, lifting her foot to show him thechain.

It was a common trace-chain from plowharness; two of them, in fact, weldedtogether to give her length to go about herhousehold work. She had a freedom of notmore than sixteen feet, one end of thechain welded about her ankle, the other setin a staple driven into a log of the wall.She had wrapped the links with cloths tosave her flesh, but for all of that protectionshe walked haltingly, as if the limb weresore.

“I never heard of such inhuman treatment!”Mackenzie declared, hot to the bone in hisburning resentment of this barbarity.“How long has he kept you tied up this

way?”

“Three years now,” said she, with aweary sigh.

“It’s going to stop, right here. What didyou let him treat you this way for? Whydidn’t some of your neighbors take a handin it?”

“Nobody comes,” she sighed, shaking herhead sadly. “The name of Swan Carlson isa curse on the wind. Nobody passes; weare far from any road that men travel; yourface is the first I have seen since Swan putthe chain on me like a wolf.”

“Where does he keep his tools?”

“Maybe in the barn––I do not know. Onlythere never is anything left in my reach.Will you set me free, kind stranger?”

“If I can find anything to cut that chain. Letme have the lantern.”

The woman hesitated, her eyes growngreat with fright.

“My man, he is the one who choked twosheepherders with his hands. You musthave read in the paper–––”

“Maybe it was before my time. Give medown the lantern.”

Swan Carlson appeared to be a man whogot along with very few tools. Mackenziecould not find a cold-chisel among the fewbroken and rusted odds and ends in thebarn, although there was an anvil, such asevery rancher in that country had, fastenedto a stump in the yard, a hammer rustingbeside it on the block. As Mackenzie

stood considering what could be donewith the material at hand, the womancalled to him from the door, her voicevibrant with anxious excitement:

“My man will come soon,” she said.

Mackenzie started back to the house,hammer in hand, thinking that he mightbreak the chain near her foot and give herliberty, at least. A pile of logs lay in thedooryard, an ax hacked into the end ofone. 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 thehand of her man hung over her in threat ofthrottling out her life as he had smotheredthe sheepherders in the tragedy that gave

him his evil fame. Mackenzie urged her toa chair, giving her the lantern to hold and,with the edge of the ax set against a link ofher chain, the poll on the floor, he beganhammering the soft metal against the bit.

Once she put her hand on his shoulder, herbreath caught in a sharp exclamation ofalarm.

“I thought it was Swan’s step!” shewhispered. “Listen––do you hear?”

“There’s nobody,” he assured her, turninghis head to listen, the sweat on his leancheek glistening in the light.

“It is my fear that he will come too soon.Strike fast, good young man, strike fast!”

If Swan Carlson had been within half amile he would have split the wind to find

out the cause of such a clanging in hisshunned and proscribed house, and that hedid not appear before the chain wassevered was evidence that he wasnowhere near at hand. When the cut linksfell to the floor Mrs. Carlson stood thelantern down with gentle deliberation, asif preparing to enter the chamber ofsomeone in a desperate sickness to whomhad come a blessed respite of sleep. Thenshe stood, her lips apart, her breathsuspended, lifting her freed foot with ajoyous relief in its lightness.

Mackenzie remained on his knees at herfeet, looking up strangely into her face.Suddenly she bent over him, clasped hisforehead between her hands, kissed hisbrow as if he were her son. A great hot

tear splashed down upon his cheek as sherose again, a sob in her throat that endedin a little, moaning cry. She tossed herlong arms like an eagle set free from acramping cage, her head thrown back, herstreaming hair far down her shoulders.There was an appealing grace in her tall,spare body, a strange, awakening beautyin her haggard face.

“God sent you,” she said. “May He keepHis hand over you wherever you go.”

Mackenzie got to his feet; she picked upthe ax and leaned it against the table closeto her hand.

“I will give you eggs, you can cook themat a fire,” she said, “and bread I will giveyou, but butter I cannot give. That I havenot tasted since I came to this land, four

years ago, a bride.”

She moved about to get the food, walkingwith awkwardness on the foot that haddragged the chain so long, laughing a littleat her efforts to regain a normal balance.

“Soon it will pass away, and I will walklike a lady, as I once knew how.”

“But I don’t want to cook at a fire,”Mackenzie protested; “I want you to makeme some coffee and fry me some eggs, andthen we’ll see about things.”

She came close to him, her great gray eyesseeming to draw him until he gazed intoher soul.

“No; you must go,” she said. “It will bebetter when Swan comes that nobody shallbe here but me.”

“But you! Why, you poor thing, he’ll putthat chain on you again, knock you down,for all I know, and fasten you up like abeast. I’m not going; I’ll stay right here tillhe comes.”

“No,” shaking her head in sad earnestness,“better it will be for all that I shall be herealone when he comes.”

“Alone!” said he, impatiently; “what canyou do alone?”

“When he comes,” said she, drawing agreat breath, shaking her hair back fromher face, her deep grave eyes holding himagain in their earnest appeal, “then I willstand by the door and kill him with theax!”

CHAPTER II

SWAN CARLSON

Mackenzie found it hard to bend thewoman from this plan of summaryvengeance. She had suffered and broodedin her loneliness so long, the cruel hand ofSwan Carlson over her, that her thoughtshad beaten a path to this desire. This self-administration of justice seemed now herlife’s sole aim. She approached it withglowing eyes and flushed cheeks; she hadlived for that hour.

Harshly she met Mackenzie’s efforts atfirst to dissuade her from this long-

planned deed, yielding a little at length,not quite promising to withhold her handwhen the step of her savage husbandshould sound outside the door.

“If you are here when he comes, then itwill do for another night; if you are gone,then I will not say.”

That was the compromise she made withhim at last, turning with no more argumentto prepare his supper, carrying the ax withher as she went about the work. Often shestood in rigid concentration, listening forthe sound of Swan’s coming, suchanimation in her eyes as a bride’s mightshow in a happier hour than hers. She satopposite her visitor as he made his supperon the simple food she gave him, and toldhim the story of her adventure into that

heartless land, the ax-handle against herknee.

A minister’s daughter, educated to fitherself for a minister’s wife. She hadlearned English in the schools of hernative land, as the custom is, and couldspeak it fairly when family reversescarried her like a far-blown seed toAmerica. She had no business training, forwhat should a minister’s wife know ofbusiness beyond the affairs of the parishand the economy of her own home? Shefound, therefore, nothing open to her handsin America save menial work in thehouseholds of others.

Not being bred to it, nor the intention orthought of it as a future contingency, shesuffered in humbling herself to the

services of people who were at once herintellectual and social inferiors. The oneadvantage in it was the improvement ofher English speech, through which shehoped for better things in time.

It was while she was still new toAmerica, its customs and socialadjustments, and the shame of her menialsituation burned in her soul like acorrosive acid, that she saw theadvertisement of Swan Carlson in aSwedish newspaper. Swan Carlson wasadvertising for a wife. Beneath ahandsome picture of himself he stated hisdesires, frankly, with evident honesty inall his representations. He told of hisholdings in sheep and land, of his moneyin the bank.

A dream of new consequence in thisstrange land came to Hertha Jacobsen asshe read the advertisement, as she studiedthe features of Swan Carlson, his boldface looking at her from the page. She hadseen men, and the women of such mensharing their honors, who had risen frompeasants to governors and senators, topositions of wealth and consequence inthis strange land with all the romance of atale out of a book. Perhaps fate had urgedher on to this unfriendly shore only to feedher on the bitter herbs for her purificationfor a better life.

The minister of her church investigatedSwan Carlson and his claims, finding himall that he professed to be. Hertha wroteto him; in time Swan came to visit her, a

tall, long-striding man, handsomer than hispicture in the paper, handsome as a Vikinglord with his proud foot on the neck of afallen foe.

So she married him, and came away withhim to the sheeplands, and Swan’s handwas as tender of her as a summer wind. Itwas shearing time when they reachedhome; Swan was with her every day for alittle while, gathering his flocks from therange into the shearing sheds. He wasmaster of more than fifteen thousandsheep.

When the shearing was done, and Swanhad gone with his wagons to ship the clip,returning with his bankbook showingthousands in added wealth, a change cameinto her life, so radiant with the blossoms

of a new happiness. Swan’s big laugh wasnot so ready in his throat any more; hisgreat hand seemed forgetful of its caress.He told her that the time of idling nowwas over; she must go with him in asheep-wagon to the range and care for herband of sheep, sharing the labors of hislife as she shared its rewards.

No; that was not to her liking. The wife ofa rich man should not live as a peasantwoman, dew in her draggled skirts to herknees, the sun browning her skin andbleaching her hair. It was not for hiswoman to give him no, said Swan. Beready at a certain hour in the morning; theymust make an early start, for the way waslong.

But no; she refused to take the burden of a

peasant woman on her back. That was thefirst time Swan knocked her senseless.When she recovered, the sheep-wagonwas rocking her in its uneasy journey tothe distant range. Swan’s crueltiesmultiplied with his impatience at herslowness to master the shepherd’s art. Thedogs were sullen creatures, unused to awoman’s voice, unfriendly to a woman’spresence. Swan insisted that she lay asideher woman’s attire and dress as a man togain the good-will of the dogs.

Again she defied his authority, all herrefinement rising against the degradationof her sex; again Swan laid her senselesswith a blow. When she woke her limbswere clad in overalls, a greasy jumperwas buttoned over her breast. But the dogs

were wiser than their master; no disguiseof man’s could cover her from thecontempt of their shrewd senses. Theywould not obey her shrilled commands.

Very well, said Swan; if she did not haveit in her to win even the respect of a dog,let her do a dog’s work. So he took thecollies away, leaving her to range herband of sheep in terrible labor, mind-wrenching loneliness, over the sage-grayhills. Wolves grew bold; the lambssuffered. When Swan came again tonumber her flock, he cursed her for hercarelessness, giving her blows whichwere kinder than his words.

With the first snow she abandoned herflock and fled. Disgraceful as it was for awoman to leave her man, the frenzy of

loneliness drove her on. With hiscompanionship she could have enduredSwan’s cruelty, but alone her heart wasdead. Three days she wandered. Swanfound her after she had fallen in the snow.

His great laugh woke her, and she washome in this house, the light of day in hereyes. Swan was sitting beside her, merryin the thought of how he had cheated herout of her intention to die like an old eweamong the mountain drifts.

She was good for nothing, he said, but tosit at home like a cat. But he would makesure that she sat at home, to be there at hiscoming, and not running away from thebounty of a man who had taken a beggar tohis bosom. Then he brought the chain andthe anvil, and welded the red-hot iron

upon her limb. He laughed when thesmoke of her burning flesh rose hissing;laughed when he mounted his horse androde away, leaving her in agony too greatto let her die.

This summer now beginning was thefourth since that melancholy day. In thetime that had passed, Swan had come intothe ways of trouble, suffering a great drainupon his hoarded money, growing as aconsequence sullen and somber in hismoods. No more he laughed; even thedistress of his chained wife, the sight ofher wasting face and body, the pleading ofher tortured eyes, could not move his loudgales of merriment again.

Swan had killed two of his sheepherders,as she had mentioned before. It grew out

of a dispute over wages, in which the menwere right. That was the winter followingher attempt to run away, Swan being alonewith them upon the stormy range. Hedeclared both of them set upon him at oncelike wolves, and that he fought only todefend his life. He strangled them, thethroat of each grasped in his broad, thickhand, and held them from him so, stiffarms against their desperate struggles,until they sank down in the snow and died.

Only a little while ago the lawyers had gothim off from the charge of murder, afterlong delays. The case had been tried inanother county, for Swan Carlson’sneighbors all believed him guilty of ahorrible crime; no man among them couldhave listened to his story under oath with

unprejudiced ear. The lawyers hadbrought Swan off, for at the end it hadbeen his living word against the muteaccusations of two dead men. There wasnobody to speak for the herders; so thelawyers had set him free. But it had costhim thousands of dollars, and Swan’s evilhumor had deepened with the drain.

Crazy, he said of his wife; a poor madthing bent on self-destruction in wild andmournful ways. In that Swan wasbelieved, at least. Nobody came to inquireof her, none ever stopped to speak a word.The nearest neighbor was twelve orfifteen miles distant, a morose man withsour face, master of a sea of sheep.

All of this Swan himself had told her inthe days when he laughed. He told her

also of the lawyers’ drain upon hiswealth, starving her days together to makea pebble of saving to fill the ruthlessbreach.

“Tonight Swan will come,” she said.“After what I have told you, are you notafraid?”

“I suppose I ought to be,” Mackenziereturned, leaving her to form her ownconclusion.

She searched his face with steady eyes,her hand on the ax-helve, in earnest effortto read his heart.

“No, you are not afraid,” she said. “Butwait; when you hear him speak, then youwill be afraid.”

“How do you know he is coming home

tonight?”

She did not speak at once. Her eyes werefixed on the open door at Mackenzie’sside, her face was set in the tensity of hermental concentration as she listened.Mackenzie bent all his faculties to hear ifany foot approached. There was no sound.

“The fishermen of my country can feel thechill of an iceberg through the fog and thenight,” she said at last. “Swan Carlson isan iceberg to my heart.”

She listened again, bending forward, herlips open. Mackenzie fancied he heard theswing of a galloping hoof-beat, and turnedtoward the door.

“Have you a pistol?” she inquired.

“No.”

“He is coming; in a little while he will beat the door. There is time yet for you toleave.”

“I want to have a word with your man; I’llwait.”

Mrs. Carlson got up, keeping the ax inhand, moved her chair to the other side ofthe door, where she stationed herself insuch position as Swan must see her firstwhen he looked within. She disposed theax to conceal it entirely beneath her longapron, her hand under the garmentgrasping the helve.

“For your own sake, not his, I ask you notto strike him,” Mackenzie pleaded, in allthe earnestness he could command.

“I have given you the hour of my

vengeance,” she replied. “But if he cursesme, if he lifts his hand!”

Mackenzie was more than a little uneasyon the probable outcome of his meetingwith the tempestuous Swan. He got out hispipe and lit it, considering the situationwith fast-running thoughts. Still, a mancould not go on and leave that beaten,enslaved woman to the mercies of hertyrant; Swan Carlson must be given tounderstand that he would be held toanswer to the law for his future behaviortoward her.

“If I were you I’d put the ax behind thedoor and get his supper ready,” said he.

Mrs. Carlson got up at the suggestion, withsuch readiness that surprised Mackenzie,put the ax back of the open door, stood a

moment winding up her fallen hair.

“Yes, he is my man,” she said.

Swan was turning his horse into the barn;Mackenzie could hear him talking to theanimal, not unkindly. Mrs. Carlson putfresh fuel in the stove, making a rattling ofthe lids which must have sounded cheerfulto the ears of a hungry man. As she beganbreaking eggs into a bowl she took up hersong again, with an unconscious air ofdetachment from it, as one unwittinglyfollows the habit that has been for yearsthe accompaniment to a task.

As before, the refinement of accent waswanting in her words, but the sweetmelancholy of her voice thrilled herlistener like the rich notes of an ancientviolin.

Na-a-fer a-lo-o-one, na-a-fer a-lone,He promise na-fer to leafe me,Na-fer to leafe me a-lone!

Mackenzie sat with his elbow on the table,his chair partly turned toward the door,just within the threshold and a little to oneside, where the flockmaster would seehim the moment he stepped into the light.The traveler’s pack lay on the floor at thedoor jamb; the smoke from his pipedrifted out to tell of his presence in thehonest announcement of a man who hadnothing to hide.

So Swan Carlson found him as he camehome to his door.

Swan stopped, one foot in the door, thelight on his face. Mrs. Carlson did not turn

from the stove to greet him by word orlook, but stood bending a little over thepan of sputtering eggs, which she shookgently from side to side with a rhythmic,slow movement in cadence with her song.Swan turned his eyes from one to theother, his face clouding for a moment asfor a burst of storm, clearing again at onceas Mackenzie rose and gave him goodevening in cheerful and unshaken voice.

Mrs. Carlson had spoken a true wordwhen she described Swan as a handsomeman. Almost seven feet tall, Mackenzietook him to be, so tall that he must stoop toenter the door; lithe and sinewy of limbs,a lightness in them as of an athlete bred;broad in the shoulders, long of arms. Hisface was stern, his red hair long about the

ears, his Viking mustache long-drooping atthe corners of his mouth.

“I thought a man was here, or my womanhad begun to smoke,” said Swan, comingin, flinging his hat down on the floor.“What do you want, loafin’ around here?”

Mackenzie explained his business in thatcountry in direct words, and his presencein the house in the same breath. Mollified,Swan grunted that he understood andaccepted the explanation, turning up hissleeves, unfastening the collar of hisflannel shirt, to wash. His woman stood atthe stove, her song dead on her lips,sliding the eggs from the pan onto a platterin one piece. Swan gave her no heed, noteven a curious or questioning look, but ashe crossed the room to the wash bench he

saw the broken chain lying free upon thefloor.

A breath he paused over it, his eyesfastened on it in a glowering stare.Mackenzie braced himself for the storm ofwrath which seemed bursting the doors ofSwan Carlson’s gloomy heart. But Swandid not speak. He picked up the chain,examined the cut link, threw it down witha clatter. At the sound of its fallMackenzie saw Mrs. Carlson start. Sheturned her head, terror in her eyes, herface blanched. Swan bent over the basin,snorting water like a strangling horse.

There were eight eggs on the platter thatSwan Carlson’s woman put before himwhen he sat down to his supper. One endof the great trencher was heaped with

brown bacon; a stack of bread stood atSwan’s left hand, a cup of coffee at hisright. Before this provender theflockmaster squared himself, theunwelcome guest across the table fromhim, the smoke of his pipe driftinglanguidly out into the tranquil summernight.

Swan had said no word since his firstinquiry. Mackenzie had ventured nothingmore. Mrs. Carlson sat down in the chairthat she had placed near the door beforeSwan’s arrival, only that she moved it alittle to bring her hand within reach of thehidden ax.

Swan had brushed his long, dark-red hairback from his broad, deep forehead,bringing it down across the tips of his ears

in a savage fashion admirably suited to hisgrave, harsh, handsome face. He devouredhis food noisily, bending low over hisplate.

“You want to learn the sheep business,huh?” said he, throwing up his eyes inquick challenge, pausing a moment in hischamping and clatter. Mackenzie nodded,pipe raised toward his lips. “Well, youcome to the right country. You ever hadany work around a ranch?”

“No.”

“No, I didn’t think you had; you look toosoft. How much can you lift?”

“What’s that got to do with sheep?”Mackenzie inquired, frowning in hishabitual manner of showing displeasure

with frivolous and trifling things.

“I can shoulder a steel rail off of therailroad that weighs seven hundred andfifty pounds,” said Swan. “You couldn’tlift one end.”

“Maybe I couldn’t,” Mackenzie allowed,pretending to gaze out after his driftingsmoke, but watching the sheepman, as hemopped the last of the eggs up with apiece of bread, with a furtive turning ofhis eye. He was considering how toapproach the matter which he hadremained there to take up with this great,boasting, savage man, and how he couldmake him understand that it was any ofsociety’s business whether he chained hiswife 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 his mustache.

“Did you cut that chain?” he asked.

“Yes, I cut it. You’ve got no right to keepyour wife, or anybody else, chained up.You could be put in jail for it; it’s againstthe law.”

“A man’s got a right to do what he pleaseswith his own woman; she’s his property,the same as a horse.”

“Not exactly the same as a horse, either.But you could be put in jail for beatingyour horse. I’ve waited here to tell youabout this, in a friendly way, and warn youto treat this woman right. Maybe youdidn’t know you were breaking the law,but I’m telling you it’s so.”

Swan stood, his head within six inches ofthe ceiling. His wife must have read anintention of violence in his face, althoughMackenzie could mark no change in hisfeatures, always as immobile as bronze.She sprang to her feet, her bosom agitated,arms lifted, shoulders raised, as if toshrink from the force of a blow. She madeno effort to reach the ax behind the door;the thought of it had gone, apparently, outof her mind.

Swan stood within four feet of her, but hegave her no attention.

“When a man comes to my house andmonkeys with my woman, him and mewe’ve got to have a fight,” he said.

CHAPTER III

THE FIGHT

Mackenzie got up, keeping the tablebetween them. He looked at the door,calculating whether he could make aspring for the ax before Carlson couldgrapple him. Carlson read in the glance anintention to retreat, made a quick stride tothe door, closed it sharply, locked it, putthe key in his pocket. He stood a momentlooking Mackenzie over, as if surprisedby the length he unfolded when on his feet,but with no change of anger or resentmentin his stony face.

“You didn’t need to lock the door,Carlson; I wasn’t going to run away––Ididn’t wait here to see you for that.”

Mackenzie stood in careless, loungingpose, hand on the back of his chair, pipebetween his fingers, a rather humorouslook in his eyes as he measured Carlsonup and down.

“Come out here in the middle and fight meif you ain’t afraid!” Swan challenged,derision in his voice.

“I’ll fight you, all right, after I tell youwhat I waited here to say. You’re acoward, Swan Carlson, you’re asheepman with a sheep’s heart. I turnedyour woman loose, and you’re going to lether stay loose. Let that sink into yourhead.”

Carlson was standing a few feet in front ofMackenzie, leaning forward, his shouldersswelling and falling as if he flexed hismuscles for a spring. His arms he heldswinging in front of him full length, like arunner waiting for the start, in a posture atonce unpromising and uncouth. Behindhim his wife shuddered against the wall.

“Swan, Swan! O-o-oh, Swan, Swan!” shesaid, crying it softly as if she chided himfor a great hurt.

Swan turned partly toward her, strikingbackward with his open hand. His greatknuckles struck her across the eyes, acruel, heavy blow that would have felleda man. She staggered back a pace, thensank limply forward on her knees, herhands outreaching on the floor, her hair

falling wildly, her posture that of asuppliant at a barbarian conqueror’s feet.

Mackenzie snatched the heavy platter fromthe table and brought Carlson a smashingblow across the head. Carlson stoodweaving on his legs a moment as thefragments of the dish clattered around him,swaying like a tree that waits the lastblow of the ax to determine which way itwill fall. Mackenzie threw the fragmentthat remained in his hand into Carlson’sface, laying open a long gash in his cheek.As the hot blood gushed down over hisjaw Carlson steadied himself on hisswaying legs and laughed.

Mrs. Carlson lifted her face out of theshadows of the floor at the sound.Mackenzie glanced at her, the red mark of

Swan’s harsh blow across her brows, ashe flew at Swan like a desert whirlwind,landing heavily on his great neck beforehe could lift a guard. The blow staggeredCarlson over upon his wife, and togetherthey collapsed against the wall, whereCarlson stood a breath, his hand thrownout to save him from a fall. Then he shookhis haughty, handsome, barbarian head,and laughed again, a loud laugh, deep andstrong.

There was no note of merriment in thatsound, no inflection of satisfaction or joy.It came out of his wide-extended jawswith a roar, no facial softening with it, noblending of the features in thetransformation of a smile. Mrs. Carlsonstruggled to her knees at the sound of it,

lifting her moaning cry again at the sight ofhis gushing blood. Swan charged hisadversary with bent head, the floortrembling under his heavy feet, his greathands lifted to seize and crush.

Mackenzie backed away, upsetting thetable between them, barring for a momentSwan’s mad onrush. In the anger-blindmovements of the man he could read hisintention, which was not to strike foot tofoot, knee to knee, but to grapple andsmother, as he had smothered thesheepherders in the snow. Across theoverturned table Mackenzie landedanother blow, sprang around the barrierout of the pocket of corner into whichCarlson was bent on forcing him, hopingby nimble foot work to play on the

flockmaster for a knockout.

Swan threw a chair as Mackenzie circledout of his reach with nimble feet, knockingdown the stovepipe, dislodging a showerof tinware from the shelves behind.Carlson had him by the shoulder now, buta deft turn, a sharp blow, and Mackenziewas free, racing over the cluttered floor inwild uproar, bending, side-stepping, in astrained and terrific race. Carlson pickedup the table, swung it overhead until itstruck the ceiling, threw it with all hismighty strength to crush the man who hadevaded him with such clever speed. A legcaught Mackenzie a glancing blow on thehead, dazing him momentarily, givingCarlson the opening he desired.

In the next breath Mackenzie was down,

Carlson’s hand at his throat. Mackenziecould see Swan’s face as he bent overhim, the lantern light on it fairly. Therewas no light of exultation in it as his greathand closed slowly upon Mackenzie’sthroat, no change from its stony harshnesssave for the dark gash and the flood ofblood that ran down his jaw and neck.

Mackenzie writhed and struggled, gropingon the floor for something to strikeCarlson with and break his garroting grip.The blood was singing in his ears, thebreath was cut from his lungs; his eyesflashed a thousand scintillating sparks andgrew dark. His hand struck something inthe debris on the floor, the handle of atable knife it seemed, and with the contacta desperate accession of life heaved in

him like a final wave. He struck, andstruck at Swan Carlson’s arm, and struckagain at his wrist as he felt the tighteningband of his fingers relax, heard him curseand growl. A quick turn and he was free,with a glimpse as he rolled over at SwanCarlson pulling a table fork out of hishairy wrist.

Mackenzie felt blood in his mouth; hisears were muffled as if he were underwater, but he came to his feet with a leg ofthe broken table in his hand. Swan threwthe fork at him as he rose from his knees;it struck the lantern, breaking the globe,cutting off more than half the dim light inwhich the undetermined battle had begun.

Over against the door Mrs. Carlson stoodwith the ax in her hands, holding it

uplifted, partly drawn back, as if she hadchecked it in an intended blow. Swan torea broad plank from the table top, split itover his knee to make it better fit his hand,and came on to the attack, bending in hisslouching, bearish attitude of defiantstrength. Mackenzie gave way before him,watching his moment to strike the decisiveblow.

This maneuver brought Mackenzie nearthe door, where the wild-eyed womanstood, an ally and a reserve, ready to helphim in the moment of his extremity. Hebelieved she had been on the point ofstriking Swan the moment his fingersclosed in their convulsive pang of deathover the handle of the fork.

Swan followed, warily now, conscious of

this man’s unexpected strength and agility,and of his resources in a moment ofdesperation, making feints with his boardas a batter does before the ball is thrown.Mackenzie passed Mrs. Carlson, backingaway from Swan, sparring for time torecover his wind and faculties after hisswift excursion to the borderland of death.He parried a swift blow, giving one inreturn that caught Swan on the elbow andknocked the plank out of his hand.Mackenzie sprang forward to follow uphis advantage with a decisive stroke,when, to his amazement, Mrs. Carlsonthrew herself between them, the axuplifted in her husband’s defense.

“No, no!” she screamed; “he is my man!”

Swan Carlson laughed again, and patted

her shoulder, stooping to recover hisboard. But he flung it down again, takingthe ax in its place, pushing his woman, notwithout some tenderness in his hand, backinto the corner, throwing himself in frontof her, his wild laugh ringing in the murkyroom, stifling from the smoke of lanternand stove.

Mackenzie felt his hope break like a ropeof straw at this unexpected turn of thewoman. With those two mad creatures––for mad he believed the isolation andcruelty suffered by the one, the trouble andterror of the law by the other, had driventhem––leagued against him it seemed thathe must put down all hope of ever lookingagain upon the day.

If there was any chance for him at all, it

lay in darkness. With this thoughtMackenzie made a quick dash pastCarlson, smashing the lantern with a blow.

There was one window in the room, asmall, single-sash opening near the stove.Even this was not apparent for a littlewhile following the plunge into the dark;Mackenzie stood still, waiting for his eyesto adjust themselves to the gloom. Nosound but Carlson’s breathing came fromthe other side of the kitchen. The square ofwindow appeared dimly now, a little toMackenzie’s left. He moved cautiouslyaway from it, yet not without noise for allhis care. Swan let drive with his board atthe sound of movement. His aim wasgood; it struck Mackenzie’s shoulder, butfortunately with its flat surface, doing no

hurt.

Mackenzie threw himself down heavily,getting cautiously to his feet againinstantly, hoping to draw Carlson over inthe belief that he had put him out of thefight. But Carlson was not so rash. Hestruck a match, holding it up, peeringunder it, blinking in the sudden light.

Mackenzie was not more than eight feetaway. He closed the distance in a bound,swung the heavy oak table leg, andstretched Carlson on the floor. Mrs.Carlson began wailing and moaning,bending over her fallen tyrant, asMackenzie could gather from her voice.

“You’ve killed him,” she said; “you’vekilled my man!”

“No, but I will kill him if you don’t openthe door!”

Mackenzie stood by Carlson as he spoke,feeling his body with his foot. He bentover Carlson, exploring for his heart,fearing that he had killed him, indeed. Hisfirst efforts to locate a pulse were notassuring, but a feeble throbbing at lastannounced that the great ruffian’sadmirable machinery was stunned, notbroken.

“Open the door; he’ll be all right in a littlewhile,” Mackenzie said.

Mrs. Carlson was moaning in a sorrow asgenuine as if the fallen man had been thekindest husband that fate could have senther, and not the heartless beast that hewas. She found the key and threw the door

open, letting in a cool, sweet breath of thenight. Under it Carlson would soonrevive, Mackenzie believed. He had nodesire to linger and witness therestoration.

Mackenzie had a bruised and heavyfeeling about him as he shouldered hispack and hurried from that inhospitabledoor. He knew that Swan Carlson was notdead, and would not die from that blow.Why the feeling persisted as he struck offup the creek through the dew-wet grass hecould not tell, but it was strong upon himthat Swan Carlson would come into hisway again, to make trouble for him on afuture day.

CHAPTER IV

KEEPER OF THE FLOCK

John Mackenzie, late schoolmaster ofJasper, marched on through the cool of thenight, regretting that he had meddled in thedomestic arrangements of Swan Carlson,the Swede. The outcome of his attemptedkindness to the oppressed woman had notbeen felicitous. Indeed, he was troubledgreatly by the fear that he had killed SwanCarlson, and that grave consequencesmight rise out of this first adventure thatever fell in his way.

Perhaps adventure was not such a thing to

be sought as he had imagined, hereflected; hand to his swollen throat.There was an ache in his crushedwindpipe, a dryness in his mouth, a tasteof blood on his tongue. That had been aclose go for him, there on the floor underSwan Carlson’s great knee; a few secondslonger, and his first adventure would havebeen his last.

Yet there was a vast satisfaction inknowing what was in him. Here he hadstood foot to foot with the strong man ofthe sheeplands, the strangler, the fierce,half-insane terror of peaceful men, andhad come off the victor. He had fought thisman in his own house, where a man willfight valiantly, even though a coward onthe road, and had left him senseless on the

floor. It was something for aschoolteacher, counted a mild andchildlike man.

It had been many a year since Mackenziehad mixed in a fight, and the best that hadgone before was nothing more than aharmless spat compared to this. Themarvel of it was how he had developedthis quality of defense in inactivity. Theremust have been some psychologicalundercurrent carrying strength and skill tohim through all the years of his romanticimaginings; the spirits of old heroes of thatland must have lent him their counsel andmight in that desperate battle with theNorse flockmaster.

Adventure was not dead out of the land, itseemed, although this was a rather sordid

and ignoble brand. It had descended tobase levels among base men who livedwith sheep and thought only of sheep-riches. Violence among such men as SwanCarlson was merely violence, with noneof the picturesque embellishments of theolden days when men slung pistols with achallenge and a hail, in those swift battleswhere skill was all, bestial strengthnothing.

Mackenzie hoped to find Tim Sullivandifferent from the general run of sheep-rich men. There must be some of the spiceof romance in a man who had the widereputation of Tim Sullivan, and who wasthe hero of so many tales of success.

It was Mackenzie’s hope that thisencounter with the wild sheepman might

turn out to his profit with Tim Sullivan.He always had believed that he shouldwin fortune fighting if it ever fell to hisportion at all. This brush with SwanCarlson confirmed his old belief. If therewas any good luck for him in the sheepcountry, it would come to him through afight,

Mackenzie considered these things as hemarched on away from Swan Carlson’shomestead, thinking the safe plan wouldbe to put several miles between himselfand that place before lying down to rest.At dawn Swan would be out after himwith a gun, more than likely. Mackenziehad nothing of the sort in his slenderequipment. Imagine a man going into thesheep country carrying a gun! The gun

days of the West were done; he had seenonly one cowboy wearing one in his fouryears at Jasper.

Past midnight Mackenzie came to a littlevalley where somebody had been cuttinghay. The late-risen moon discovered thelittle mounds of hay thick around him, thearoma of the curing herbage was blowingto him an invitation to stop and sleep. LetSwan Carlson come when he might, thatwas the place prepared for the traveler’srepose.

Romance or no romance, riches orpoverty, he was through with a woman’swork, he told himself. Once there hadbeen ideals ahead of him in educationalwork, but the contempt of men haddispelled them. If he could not find his

beginning in the sheep country, he wouldturn elsewhere. A man who had it in himto fight giants wasn’t cut out for teachingschool.

Mackenzie sat with his back to a haycockthinking in this vein. The sound of runningwater was near; he went to the creek andbathed his throat, easing its burning with adeep swig. Back again to the hay, stillbuilding new victories, and nobler ones,on the foundation of this triumph overSwan Carlson, the red giant who chokedmen to death in the snow.

Morning discovered no habitation in reachof the eye. That little field of mown haystood alone among the gray hills,unfenced, unfended, secure in its isolation,a little patch of something in the

wilderness that looked like home.Mackenzie must have put many milesbehind him since leaving Carlson’s door.Looking back, he could follow the courseof the creek where it snaked through thehills, dark green of willow andcottonwood fresh among the hemmingslopes of sage, but no trace of Carlson’strees could he see.

Mackenzie had no flour to mix a wad ofdough, and but a heel of a bacon side tofurnish a breakfast. It was so unpromisingin his present hungry state that hedetermined to tramp on a few miles in thehope of lifting Tim Sullivan’s ranch-houseon the prominent hilltop where, he hadbeen told, it stood.

Two or three miles beyond the hay-field

Mackenzie came suddenly upon a sheep-camp. The wagon stood on a greenhillside, a pleasant valley below it wherethe grass was abundant and sweet. Thecamp evidently had been stationed in thatplace but a little while, for a large band ofsheep grazed just below it, no bedding-ground being worn bare in the unusualverdure. Altogether, it was the greenestand most promising place Mackenzie hadmet in his journey, gladdening at once tothe imagination and the eye.

The shepherd sat on the hillside, his dogsbeside him, a little smoke ascendingstraight in the calm, early sunshine fromhis dying fire. The collies scented thestranger while he stood on the hilltop,several hundred yards above the camp,

rising to question his presence bristlingbacks. The shepherd rose to inquire intothe alarm, springing up with amazingagility, such sudden and wild concern inhis manner as provoked the traveler’ssmile.

Mackenzie saw that he was a boy offifteen or thereabout, dressed in overallsmuch too large for him, the bottoms turnedup almost to his knees. Hot as the morningwas beginning, the lad had on a duck coatwith sheepskin collar, but in theexcitement 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, afew rods distant, throwing back a half-frightened look as he disappeared around

its side.

This was a very commodious wagon,familiar to Mackenzie from having seenmany like it drawn up for repairs at theblacksmith shops in Jasper. Its heavycanvas top was stretched tightly overbows, made to withstand wind and roughweather, a stovepipe projecting through it,fended about with a broad tin, and acanvas door, with a little window in it, acommodious step letting down to theground. Its tongue was cut short, to admitcoupling it close behind the camp-mover’swagon, and it was a snug and comfortablehome on wheels.

The dogs came slowly to meet Mackenzieas he approached, backs still bristling,countenances unpromising. The boy had

disappeared into the wagon; Mackenziewondered if he had gone to fetch his gun.

But no. Instead of a gun, came a girl,neither timidity nor fear in her bearing,and close behind her came the boy, hatstill in his hand, his long, straight hairdown about his ears. Mackenzie hadstopped a hundred yards or so distant, notconfident of a friendly reception from thedogs. The girl waved her hand ininvitation for him to come on, and stoodwaiting at the wagon end.

She was as neatly dressed as the ladbeside her was uncouth in his man-sizeoveralls, her short corduroy skirt beltedabout with a broad leather clasped with agleaming silver buckle, the tops of her talllaced boots lost beneath its hem. Her gray

flannel waist was laced at the bosom likea cowboy’s shirt, adorned at the collarwith a flaming scarlet necktie done in abow as broad as a band. Her brownsombrero was tilted, perhapsunintentionally, a little to one side of herrather pert and independently carriedhead.

At a word from her the dogs left the wayunopposed, and as greetings passedbetween the sheepgirl and the stranger thewise creatures stood beside her, eyeingthe visitor over with suspicious mien.Mackenzie told his name and his business,making inquiry in the same breath for TimSullivan’s ranch.

“Do you know Mr. Sullivan?” she asked.And as she lifted her eyes Mackenzie saw

that they were as blue as asters on anOctober morning, and that her hair was awarm reddish-brown, and that her facewas refreshingly pure in its outline, strongand haughty and brown, and subtly sweetas the elusive perfume of a wild rose ofthe hills.

“No, I don’t know Mr. Sullivan; I’venever even seen him. I’ve heard a lotabout him down at Jasper––I was theschoolteacher there.”

“Oh, you’re up here on your vacation?”said she, a light of quick interest in hereyes, an unmistakable friendliness in hervoice. It was as if he had presented aletter from somebody well and favorablyknown.

“No, I’ve come up here to see about

learning the sheep business.”

“Sheep business?” said she, looking athim with surprised eyes. “Sheepbusiness?” this time with a shading ofdisgust. “Well, if I had sense enough toteach school I’d never want to see anothersheep!”

Mackenzie smiled at her impetuousoutburst in which she revealed in a wordthe discontent of her heart.

“Of course you know Mr. Sullivan?”

“He’s my father,” she returned. “This ismy brother Charley; there are eight moreof us at home.”

Charley grinned, his shyness still overhim, but his alarm quieted, and gaveMackenzie his hand.

“The ranch is about thirteen or fifteenmiles on up the creek from here,” she said,“You haven’t had your breakfast, haveyou?”

“No; I just about finished my grubyesterday.”

“I didn’t see any grease around yourgills,” said the girl, in quite a matter-of-fact way, no flippancy in her manner.“Charley, stir up the fire, will you? I can’toffer you much, Mr. Mackenzie, but you’rewelcome to what there is. How about acan of beans?”

“You’ve hit me right where I live, MissSullivan.”

The collies came warily up, stiff-legged,with backs still ruffled, and sniffed

Mackenzie over. They seemed to find himharmless, turning from him presently to goand lie beside Charley, their faces towardthe flock, alert ears lifted, white breastsgleaming in the sun like the linen offastidious gentlemen.

“Do you want me to get any water, Joan?”Charley inquired.

Joan answered from inside the wagon thatno water was needed, there was coffeeenough in the pot. She handed the smoke-blackened vessel out to Mackenzie as shespoke, telling him to go and put it on thefire.

Joan turned the beans into the pan aftercooking the bacon, and sent Charley to thewagon for a loaf of bread.

“We don’t have to bake bread in thiscamp, that’s one blessing,” she said.“Mother keeps us supplied. Some of thesesheepherders never taste anything but theircold-water biscuits for years at a time.”

“It must get kind of tiresome,” Mackenziereflected, thinking of his own efforts atbread-making on the road.

“It’s too heavy to carry around in thecraw,” said Joan.

Charley watched Mackenzie curiously ashe ate, whispering once to his sister, whoflushed, turned her eyes a moment on hervisitor, and then seemed to rebuke the ladfor passing confidences in such impoliteway. Mackenzie guessed that hisdiscolored neck and bruised face had beenthe subject of the boy’s conjectures, but he

did not feel pride enough in his lateencounter to speak of it even inexplanation. Charley opened the way to itat last when Joan took the breakfast thingsback to the wagon.

“Have you been in a fight?” the boyinquired.

“Not much of a one,” Mackenzie told him,rather wishing that the particulars might bereserved.

“Your neck’s black like somebody’d beenchokin’ you, and your face is bunged upsome, 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 started in roundamazement. “You couldn’t never ’a’ gotaway from Swan; he choked two fellers todeath, one in each hand. No man in thiscountry could whip one side of Swan.”

“Well, I got away from him, anyhow,”said Mackenzie, in a manner that even theboy understood to be the end of thediscussion.

But Charley was not going to have it so.He jumped up and ran to meet Joan as shecame from the wagon.

“Mr. Mackenzie had a fight with SwanCarlson––that’s what’s the matter with hisneck!” he said. There was unboundedadmiration in the boy’s voice, andexultation as if the distinction were hisown. Here before his eyes was a man who

had come to grips with Swan Carlson, andhad escaped from his strangling hands toeat his breakfast with as much unconcernas if he had no more than been kicked by amule.

Joan came on a little quicker, excitementreflected in her lively eyes. Mackenziewas filling his pipe, which had gonethrough the fight in his pocket inmiraculous safety––for which he was dulygrateful––ashamed of his bruises, now thatthe talk of them had brought them to Joan’snotice again.

“I hope you killed him,” she said, comingnear, looking down on Mackenzie withfull commendation; “he keeps his crazywife chained up like a dog!”

“I don’t think he’s dead, but I’d like to

know for sure,” Mackenzie returned, hiseyes bent thoughtfully on the ground.

“Nobody will ever say a word to you ifyou did kill him,” Joan assured. “They’dall know he started it––he fusses witheverybody.”

She sat on the ground near him, Charleyposting himself a little in front, where hecould admire and wonder over the mightof a man who could break Swan Carlson’shold upon his throat and leave his housealive. Before them the long valleywidened as it reached away, the sheep adusty brown splotch in it, spread at theirgrazing, the sound of the lambs’ wailingrising clear in the pastoral silence.

“I stopped at Carlson’s house after darklast night,” Mackenzie explained, seeing

that such explanation must be made, “andturned his wife loose. Carlson resented itwhen he came home. He said I’d have tofight him. But you’re wrong when youbelieve what Carlson says about thatwoman; she isn’t crazy, and never was.”

That seemed to be all the story, from theway he hastened it, and turned away fromthe vital point of interest. Joan touched hisarm as he sat smoking, his speculativegaze on the sheep, his brows drawn as ifin troubled thought.

“What did you do when he said you had tofight him?” she inquired, her breathcoming fast, her cheeks glowing.

Mackenzie laughed shortly. “Why, I triedto get away,” he said.

“Why didn’t you, before he got his handson you?” Charley wanted to know.

“Charley!” said Joan.

“Carlson locked the door before I couldget out.” Mackenzie nodded to the boy,very gravely, as one man to another.Charley laughed.

“You didn’t tear up no boards off the floortryin’ to git away!” said he.

Joan smiled; that seemed to express heropinion of it, also. She admired theschoolmaster’s modest reluctance when hegave them a bare outline of whatfollowed, shuddering when he laughedover Mrs. Carlson’s defense of herhusband with the ax.

“Gee!” said Charley, “I hope dad’ll give

you a job.”

“But how did you get out of there?” Joanasked.

“I took an unfair advantage of Swan andhit him with a table leg.”

“Gee! dad’s got to give you a job,” saidCharley; “I’ll make him.”

“I’ll hold you to that, Charley,” Mackenzielaughed.

In the boy’s eyes Mackenzie was alreadya hero, greater than any man that had comeinto the sheeplands in his day. Sheeppeople are not fighting folks. They neverhave been since the world’s beginning;they never will be to the world’s end.There is something in the peacefulbusiness of attending sheep, some appeal

in their meekness and passivity, that seemsto tincture and curb the savage spirit thatdwells in the breast of man. Swan Carlsonwas one of the notorious exceptions in thatcountry. Even the cattlemen were afraid ofhim.

Joan advised against Mackenzie’sexpressed intention of returning toCarlson’s house to find out how badly hewas hurt. It would be a blessing to thecountry, she said, if it should turn out thatCarlson was killed. But Mackenzie had anuneasy feeling that it would be a blessinghe could not share. He was troubled overthe thing, now that the excitement of thefight had cooled out of him, thinking of theblow he had given Carlson with that heavypiece of oak.

Perhaps the fellow was not dead, but hurtso badly that he would die withoutsurgical aid. It was the part of duty andhumanity to go back and see. He resolvedto do this, keeping the resolution tohimself.

Joan told him much of the sheep business,and much about the art of running a bigband over that sparse range, in which thisgreen valley lay like an oasis, agladdening sight seldom to be met withamong those sulky hills. She said shehoped her father would find a place forhim, for the summer, at least.

“But I wouldn’t like to see you shutyourself up in this country like the rest ofus are,” she said, gazing off over the hillswith wistful eyes. “A man that knows

enough to teach school oughtn’t fool awayhis time on sheep.”

She was working toward her ownemancipation, she told him, running thatband of two thousand sheep on shares forher father, just the same as an ordinaryherdsman. In three years she hoped herincrease, and share of the clip, would beworth ten thousand dollars, and then shewould sell out and go away.

“What would you want to leave a goodbusiness like this for?” he asked, ratherastonished at her cool calculation uponwhat she believed to be freedom.“There’s nothing out in what people callthe world that you could turn your hand tothat would make you a third of themoney.”

“I want to go away and get someeducation,” she said.

“But you are educated, Miss Sullivan.”

She turned a slow, reproachful look uponhim, a shadow of sadness over herwholesome young face.

“I’m nearly nineteen; I don’t know asmuch as a girl of twelve,” she said.

“I’ve never met any of those precocioustwelve-year-olds,” he told her, shaking hishead gravely. “You know a great dealmore than you’re conscious of, I think,Miss Sullivan. We don’t get the best of itout of books.”

“I’m a prisoner here,” she said, stretchingher arms as if she displayed her bonds,“as much of a prisoner in my way as Swan

Carlson’s wife was in hers. You cut herchain; nobody ever has come to cut mine.”

“Your knight will come riding over thehill some evening. One comes into everywoman’s life, sooner or later, I think.”

“Mostly in imagination,” said Joan. Andher way of saying it, so wise and superior,as if she spoke of some toy which she hadoutgrown, brought a smile again to hervisitor’s grave face.

Charley was not interested in his sister’sbondage, or in the coming of a championto set her free. He went off to send thedogs after an adventurous bunch of sheepthat was straying from the main flock. Joansighed as she looked after him, putting astrand of hair away behind her ear.Presently she brightened, turning to

Mackenzie with quickening eyes.

“I’ll make a bargain with you, Mr.Mackenzie, if you’re in earnest aboutlearning the sheep business,” she said.

“All right; let’s hear it.”

“Dad’s coming over here today to finishcutting hay. I’ll make a deal with him foryou to get a band of sheep to run on sharesif you’ll agree to teach me enough to getinto college––if I’ve got brains enough tolearn.”

“The doubt would be on the side of theteacher, not the pupil, Miss Sullivan.Maybe your father wouldn’t like thearrangement, anyway.”

“He’ll like it, all right. What do you say?”

“I don’t think it would be very much to myadvantage to take charge of a band ofsheep under conditions that might look asif I needed somebody to plug for me. Yourfather might think of me as an incompetentand good-for-nothing person.”

“You’re afraid I haven’t got it in me tolearn––you don’t want to waste time onme!” Joan spoke with a sad bitterness, asone who saw another illusion fadingbefore her eyes.

“Not that,” he hastened to assure her,putting out his hand as if to add thecomfort of his touch to the salve of hiswords. “I’m only afraid your fatherwouldn’t have anything to do with me ifyou were to approach him with any suchproposal. From what I’ve heard of him

he’s a man who likes a fellow to do hisown talking.”

“I don’t think he’d refuse me.”

“It’s hard for a stranger to do that. Yourfather–––”

“You’ll not do it, you mean?”

“I think I’d rather get a job from yourfather on my own face than on any kind ofan arrangement or condition, MissSullivan. But I pass you my word thatyou’ll be welcome to anything and all I’mable to teach you if I become a pupil in thesheep business on this range. Provided, ofcourse, that I’m in reaching distance.”

“Will you?” Joan asked, hope clearing theshadows from her face again.

“But we might be too far apart for lessonsvery often,” he suggested.

“Not more than ten or twelve miles. Icould ride that every day.”

“It’s a bargain then, if I get on,” said he.

“It’s a bargain,” nodded Joan, giving himher hand to bind it, with great earnestnessin her eyes.

CHAPTER V

TIM SULLIVAN

“Yes, they call us flockmasters in thereports of the Wool Growers’Association, and in the papers andmagazines, but we’re nothing butsheepmen, and that’s all you can make outof us.”

Tim Sullivan spoke without humor whenhe made this correction in the name of hiscalling, sitting with his back to a haycock,eating his dinner in the sun. Mackenzieaccepted the correction with a nod ofunderstanding, sparing his words.

“So you want to be a flockmaster?” saidTim. “Well, there’s worse callin’s a man,especially a young man, could take up.What put it in your head to tramp off uphere to see me? Couldn’t some of themsheepmen down at Jasper use you?”

“I wanted to get into the heart of the sheepcountry for one thing, and several of myfriends recommended you as the bestsheepman on the range, for another. I wantto learn under a master, if I learn at all.”

“Right,” Tim nodded, “right and sound.Do you think you’ve got the stuff in you tomake a sheepman out of?”

“It will have to be a pretty hard school if Ican’t stick it through.”

“Summers are all right,” said Tim,

reflectively, nodding away at the distanthills, “and falls are all right, but you takeit winter and early spring, and it tries themettle in a man. Blizzards and starvation,and losses through pile-ups andstampedes, wolves and what not, make aman think sometimes he’ll never gothrough it any more. Then spring comes,with the cold wind, and slush up to yourankles, and you out day and night lookin’after the ewes and lambs. Lambin’ time isthe hard time, and it’s the time when a manmakes it or loses, accordin’ to what’s inhim to face hardship and work.”

“I’ve heard about it; I know what I’masking to go up against, Mr. Sullivan.”

“You want to buy in, or take a band onshares?”

“I’d rather take a band on shares. If I putwhat little money I’ve got into it I’ll go italone.”

“That’s right; it’s safer to let the other mantake the risk. It ain’t fair to us sheepmen,but we have to do it to get men. Well,when we hit on a good man, it pays betterthan hirin’ poor ones at fifty dollars amonth and found. I’ve had old snoozersworkin’ for me that the coyotes eat theboots off of while they was asleep. Youlook kind of slim and light to tackle a jobon the range.”

Mackenzie made no defense of his weight,advancing no further argument in behalf ofhis petition for a job. Sullivan measuredhim over with his appraising eyes, sayingnothing about the bruises he bore, although

Mackenzie knew he was burning withcuriosity to go into the matter of how andwhen he received them.

Sullivan was a man of calm benignity offace, a placid certainty of his power andplace in the world; a rugged man, broad-handed, slow. His pleasure was in thedistinction of his wealth, and not in anyuse that he made of it for his own comfortor the advancement of those under hishand. Even so, he was of a type superiorto the general run of flockmasters such asMackenzie had met.

“I’ll give you a job helpin’ me on this hayfor a few days, and kind of try you out,”Tim agreed at last. “I don’t want todiscourage you at the start, but I don’tbelieve you got the mettle in you to make a

flockmaster, if you want to call it that, outof.”

“All right; I’ll help you on the hay. BeforeI start in though, I’d like to borrow asaddle-horse from you to take a ride downthe creek to Swan Carlson’s place. Iwouldn’t be long.”

“Carlson’s place? Do you know SwanCarlson?”

Mackenzie told in few words how muchhe knew of Carlson, and his reason fordesiring to visit him. Tim’s wonder wastoo large to contain at hearing this news.He got up, his eyes staring in plainincredulity, his mouth open a bit betweensurprise and censure, it seemed. But hesaid nothing for a little while; only stoodand looked Mackenzie over again, with

more careful scrutiny than before.

“I’ll go down with you,” he announced,turning abruptly away to get the horses.

It was evident to Mackenzie that Sullivanwas bewildered between doubt andsuspicion as they rode toward Carlson’sranch, which the sheepman said was aboutseven miles away. But he betrayed nothingof his thoughts in words, riding in silencemainly, looking at the ground like a manwho had troubles on his mind.

The silence of abandonment was overCarlson’s house as they rode up. A fewchickens retreated from the yard to thecover of the barn in the haste of panic,their going being the only sound of lifeabout the place. The door through whichMackenzie had left was shut; he

approached it without hesitation––TimSullivan lingering back as if in doubt oftheir reception––and knocked. No answer.Mackenzie tried the door, finding itunlocked; pushed it open, entered.

Sullivan stood outside, one mighty handon the jamb, his body to one side underprotection of the house, his head putcautiously and curiously round to see,leaving a fairway for Swan Carlsonshould he rise from a dark corner, shakehimself like an old grizzly, and charge.

“Is he there?” Tim asked, his voice astrained whisper.

Mackenzie did not reply. He stood in themiddle of the room where his combat withSwan had taken place, among the debris ofbroken dishes, wrecked table, fallen

stovepipe and tinware, looking about himwith grim interest. There was nobody inthe other room, but the blood from Swan’shurt trailed across the floor as if he hadbeen helped to the bed. Tim took hiscourage in both hands and came just insidethe door.

“Man! Look at the blood!” he said.

“There’s nobody here,” Mackenzie toldhim, turning to go.

“She’s took him to the doctor,” said Tim.

“Where is that?”

“There’s a kind of a one over on theSweetwater, sixty miles from here, butthere’s no good one this side of Jasper.”

“He’ll die on the way,” Mackenzie said

conclusively.

“No such luck,” said Tim. “Look! There’sthe chain he tied that woman of his upwith.”

“We’d better go back and get at that hay,”Mackenzie said. “There’s nothing I can dofor Carlson.”

“There’s the table leg you hit him with!”Tim picked it up, plucking off the redhairs which clung to it, looking atMackenzie with startled eyes. Mackenziemounted his horse.

“You’d better shut the door,” he calledback as he rode away.

Tim caught up with him half a mile on theway back to the hay-field. The sheepmanseemed to have outrun his words. A long

time he rode beside Mackenzie in silence,turning a furtive eye upon him across hislong nose now and then. At last it burstfrom him:

“You done it!” he said, with theastonished pleasure of a man assuredagainst his doubts.

Mackenzie checked his horse, looking atTim in perplexed inquiry.

“What are you talking about?” he asked.

“You laid him out––Swan Carlson––youdone it! Man!”

“Oh, you’re still talking about that,”Mackenzie said, a bit vexed.

“It would be worth thousands to the rest ofus sheepmen on this range if he never

comes back.”

“Why didn’t some of you handle him longago? A man of your build ought to be ableto put a dent in Carlson.”

“I’ll fight any man that stands on twofeet,” said Tim, with such sincerity that itcould not have been taken for a boast,“you can ask about me far and near, but Idraw the line at the devil. I’ve stood upwith four men against me, with meatcleavers and butcher knives in their hands,when I used to work as a sheep butcherback in the packin’ house in Chicago, andI’ve come through with my life. But themwas friends of mine,” he sighed; “a manknew how they lived. Swan Carlson’s gota wolf’s blood in his veins. He ain’t ahuman man.”

“And this man is worth three hundredthousand dollars!” thought Mackenzie.And he knew, also, that the greatesttreasure that the flockmaster could countwas one not so greatly appreciated as athousand sheep––that brave, ambitiouslittle rebel, Joan.

“Maybe you’ve got the makin’ of asheepman in you,” Tim said, thoughtfully,as they came in sight of the hay. “I’ve gotan old man I could put you under till thedogs got used to you and you learnt theirways and found out something among thethousand things a man’s got to know if heintends to make a success of runnin’sheep. Old Dad Frazer could put you ontothe tricks of the trade quicker than any manI know. Maybe you have got the makin’ of

a sheepman in you. I’ll have to think itover.”

Tim took the four days they were at thehay to think about it. At the end of thattime, with the hay in stack and themowing-machine loaded into the wagonfor the rough journey to the ranch, Timunburdened his mind.

“I’ve decided to try you out, John,” heannounced, but shaking his head as hespoke, as if he doubted the wisdom of theventure. “I’ll leave you here with DadFrazer––he’s over on Horsethief, aboutsix miles across from Joan’s range––andlet him break you in. You understand, youdon’t go in on shares till you’re able tohandle at least two thousand head.”

“I agree on that.”

“And then there’s another little point.”Tim shifted his feet, jerked up histrousers, rubbed his chin in a truly Irishway. “That girl of mine, Joan, she’s got itin her head she wants to be a lady, and goto college and put on agonies. No use in it,as I tell her. No girl that’s got moneyneeds any of the education stuff. I got onwithout it, and I made my money withoutit. Joan she wants you to give her somelessons. She made me promise I wouldn’ttake you on unless you’d agree to that aspart of our conditions and contract.”

Mackenzie had no need to put on a face ofthinking it over seriously; he was entirelysincere in the silence he held while herevolved it in his mind. He doubtedwhether more learning would bring to

Joan the contentment which she lacked inher present state. It might only open thedoor to a greater longing, or it mightdisillusion her when her feet had left thesewild, free hills, and set a pang in her heartlike a flame for the things whichknowledge closes the door against thereturn for evermore.

“I’ll tell you how to handle her to be ridof her soon,” said Tim, winking craftily,seeing how the wind stood. “Discourageher, tell her she ain’t got the mind forbooks and Latin and mathematics. All themathematics she needs is enough to counther sheep and figure her clip. Tell her toput books out of her head and stick to therange, marry some good sheepman if oneturns up to her taste, or pass them all up if

she likes. But tell her to stick to sheep,whatever she does. She can be the sheepqueen of this country in fifteen years; she’sas handy with ’em now as I am, and I tellyou, John, that’s something that’s hard forme to say, even of my own girl. But she is;she’s as good a sheepman right now as Iam or ever will be. But you don’t need totell her that.”

“I don’t believe she’ll take it, but it’s thesoundest advice I could give her,”Mackenzie said.

“Work up to it gradual, lad; it can’t bedone in a day. Make the lessons hard, pilethe Latin on heavy. Lord, I remember it,back in the old country, old FatherMacGuire layin’ it on the lads under histhumb. Devil a word of it sticks to me

now, not even the word for sheep. I triedto remember some of it when they sent meup to the legislature in Cheyenne; I wantedto knock ’em over. But it had all leakedout. Discourage her, man; discourage her.”

“Yes, that might be the greatest kindness Icould do her in the end,” Mackenzie said.

“I’ll drop you off over there; you can stayin camp tonight with Charley and Joan.Tomorrow I’ll come back and take you outto Dad Frazer’s camp, and you can beginyour schoolin’ for the makin’ of a master.But begin early to discourage her, John;begin at her early, lad.”

CHAPTER VI

EYES IN THE FIRELIGHT

“They call it the lonesomeness here,” saidJoan, her voice weary as with the weightof the day. “People shoot themselveswhen they get it bad––green sheepherdersand farmers that come in here to try toplow up the range.”

“Crazy guys,” said Charley,contemptuously, chin in his hands wherehe stretched full length on his belly besidethe embers of the supper fire.

“Homesick,” said Mackenzie,understandingly. “I’ve heard it’s one of

the worst of all diseases. It defeats armiessometimes, so you can’t blame a lonesheepherder if he loses his mind onaccount of it.”

“Huh!” said Charley, no sympathy in himfor 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 wasto go away.”

“You sure would, kid,” said Charley, withcomfortable finality.

“But I want to go, just the same,” Joandeclared, a certain defiance in her tone, asif in defense of a question often disputedbetween herself and Charley.

“You think you do,” said Charley, “but

you’d hit the high places comin’ backhome. Ain’t that right, Mr. Mackenzie?”

“I think there’s something to it,”Mackenzie allowed.

“Maybe I would,” Joan yielded, “but assoon as my share in the sheep figures upenough you’ll see me hittin’ the breeze forChicago. I want to see the picturegalleries and libraries.”

“I’d like to go through the mail-orderhouse we get our things from up there,”Charley said. “The catalogue says itcovers seventeen acres!”

Mackenzie was camping with them for thenight on his way to Dad Frazer’s range,according to Tim Sullivan’s plan. Longsince they had finished supper; the sheep

were quiet below them on the hillside.The silence of the sheeplands, almostoppressive in its weight, lay around themso complete and unbroken that Mackenziefancied he could hear the stars snap asthey sparkled. He smiled to himself at thefancy, face turned up to the deep serenityof the heavens. Charley blew the embers,stirring them with a brush of sage.

“The lonesomeness,” said Mackenzie,with a curious dwelling on the word; “Inever heard it used in that specific sensebefore.”

“Well, it sure gets a greenhorn,” saidJoan.

Charley held the sage-branch to theembers, blowing them until a little blazejumped up into the startled dark. The

sudden light revealed Joan’s face whereshe sat across from Mackenzie, and it wasso pensively sad that it smote his heartlike a pain to see.

Her eyes stood wide open as she hadstretched them to roam into the night afterher dreams of freedom beyond the landshe knew, and so she held them a moment,undazzled by the light of the leaping blaze.They gleamed like glad waters in amorning sun, and the schoolmaster’s heartwas quickened by them, and the pain forher longing soothed out of it. The well ofher youth was revealed before him, thefountain of her soul.

“I’m goin’ to roll in,” Charley announced,his branch consumed in the eager breath ofthe little blaze. “Don’t slam your shoes

down like you was drivin’ nails when youcome in, Joan.”

“It wouldn’t bother you much,” Joan toldhim, calmly indifferent to his great desirefor unbroken repose.

Charley rolled on his back, where he lay alittle while in luxurious inaction, sleepcoming over him heavily. Joan shook him,sending him stumbling off to the wagonand his bunk.

“You could drive a wagon over him andnever wake him once he hits the hay,” shesaid.

“What kind of a man is Dad Frazer?”Mackenzie asked, his mind running on hisbusiness adventure that was to begin onthe morrow.

“Oh, he’s a regular old flat-foot,” saidJoan. “He’ll talk your leg off beforeyou’ve been around him a week, blowin’about what he used to do down inOklahoma.”

“Well, a man couldn’t get thelonesomeness around him, anyhow.”

“You’ll get it, all right, just like I told you;no green hand with all his senses everescaped it. Maybe you’ll have it light,though,” she added, hopefully, as if tohold him up for the ordeal.

“I hope so. But with you coming over totake lessons, and Dad Frazer talkingmorning, noon, and night, I’ll forget Egyptand its fleshpots, maybe.”

“Egypt? I thought you came from Jasper?”

“It’s only a saying, used in relation to theplace you look back to with regret whenyou’re hungry.”

“I’m so ignorant I ought to be shot!” saidJoan.

And Mackenzie sat silently fronting her,the dead fire between, a long time,thinking of the sparkle of her yearningeyes, smiling in his grim way to himselfwhen there was no chance of being seenas he felt again the flash of them strikedeep into his heart. Wise eyes, eyes whichheld a store of wholesome knowledgegleaned from the years in those silentplaces where her soul had grown withouta shadow to smirch its purity.

“There’s a difference between wisdomand learning,” he said at last, in low and

thoughtful voice. “What’s it like overwhere Dad Frazer grazes his sheep?”

“Close to the range Swan Carlson and theHall boys use, and you want to keep awayfrom there.”

“Of course; I wouldn’t want to trespass onanybody’s territory. Are they alldisagreeable people over that way?”

“There’s nobody there but the Halls andCarlson. You know Swan.”

“He might improve on closeacquaintance,” Mackenzie speculated.

“I don’t think he’s as bad as the Halls,wild and crazy as he is. Hector Hall,especially. But you may get on with them,all right––I don’t want to throw any scareinto you before you meet them.”

“Are they out looking for trouble?”

“I don’t know as they are, but they’re thereto make it if anybody lets a sheep get aninch over the line they claim as theirs. Oh,well, pass ’em up till you have to meetthem––maybe they’ll treat you white,anyway.”

Again a silence stood between them,Mackenzie considering many things, notthe least of them being this remarkablegirl’s life among the sheep and the roughcharacters of the range, no wonder in himover her impatience to be away from it. Itseemed to him that Tim Sullivan mightwell spare her the money for schooling, aswell as fend her against the dangers andhardships of the range by keeping her athome these summer days.

“It looks to me like a hard life for a girl,”he said; “no diversions, none of the thingsthat youth generally values and craves.Don’t you ever have any dances oranything––camp meetings or picnics?”

“They have dances over at Four Cornerssometimes––Hector Hall wanted me to goto one with him about a year ago. He hadhis nerve to ask me, the little old sheep-thief!”

“Well, I should think so.”

“He’s been doubly sore at us ever since Iturned him down. I looked for him to comeover and shoot up my camp some night fora long time, but I guess he isn’t that bad.”

“So much to his credit.”

“But I wish sometimes I’d gone with him.

Maybe it would have straightened thingsout. You know, when you stay here on therange, Mr. Mackenzie, you’re on a levelwith everybody else, no matter what youthink of yourself. You can’t get out of theplace they make for you in their estimationof you. Hector Hall never will believe I’mtoo good to go to a dance with him. He’llbe sore about it all his life.”

“A man naturally would have regrets,Miss Sullivan. Maybe that’s as far as itgoes with Hector Hall, maybe he’s onlysore at heart for the honor denied.”

“That don’t sound like real talk,” saidJoan.

Mackenzie grinned at the rebuke, and thecandor and frankness in which it wasadministered, thinking that Joan would

have a frigid time of it out in the world ifshe applied such outspoken rules to itsflatteries and mild humbugs.

“Let’s be natural then,” he suggested,considering as he spoke that candor wasJoan’s best defense in her position on therange. Here she sat out under the starswith him, miles from the nearesthabitation, miles from her father’s house,her small protector asleep in the wagon,and thought no more of it than achaperoned daughter of the city in anilluminated drawing-room. A girl had toput men in their places and keep themthere under such circumstances, andnobody knew better how to do it thanJoan.

“I’ll try your patience and good humor

when you start out to teach me,” she toldhim, “for I’ll want to run before I learn towalk.”

“We’ll see how it goes in a few days; I’vesent for the books.”

“I’ll make a good many wild breaks,” shesaid, “and tumble around a lot, I know, butthere won’t be anybody to laugh at me––but you.” She paused as if considering thefigure she would make at the tasks sheawaited with such impatience, then addedunder her breath, almost in a whisper, asif it was not meant for him to hear: “Butyou’ll never laugh at me for being hungryto learn.”

Mackenzie attempted neither comment norreply to this, feeling that it was Joan’sheart speaking to herself alone. He looked

away over the sleeping sheeplands, vastas the sea, and as mysterious under thestarlight, thinking that it would requiremore than hard lessons and unusual tasksto discourage this girl. She stood at thefountain-edge, leaning with dry lips todrink, her wistful eyes strong to probe themysteries which lay locked in books yetstrange to her, but wiser in her years thanmany a man who had skimmed a collegecourse. There was a vast differencebetween knowledge and learning, indeed;it never had been so apparent to him as inthe presence of that outspoken girl of thesheep range that summer night.

What would the world do with JoanSullivan if she ever broke her fetters andwent to it? How would it accept her faith

and frankness, her high scorn for thedeceits upon which it fed? Not kindly, heknew. There would be disillusionmentahead for her, and bitter awakening fromlong-wrapping dreams. If he could teachher to be content in the wide freedom ofthat place he would accomplish thegreatest service that he could bring her inthe days of her untroubled youth.Discourage her, said Tim Sullivan.Mackenzie felt that this was not his job.

“Maybe Charley’s right about it,” shesaid, her voice low, and soft with thatinherited gentleness which must havecome from Tim Sullivan’s mother,Mackenzie thought. “He’s a wise kid,maybe I would want to come back fasterthan I went away. But I get so tired of it

sometimes I walk up and down out here bythe wagon half the night, and wear myselfout making plans that I may never be ableto put through.”

“It’s just as well,” he told her, noddingagain in his solemn, weighty fashion;“everybody that amounts to anything hasthis fever of unrest. Back home we used tostack the wheat to let it sweat and harden.You’re going through that. It takes thegrossness out of us.”

“Have you gone through it?”

“Years of it; over the worst of it now, Ihope.”

“And you came here. Was that the kind ofan ambition you had? Was that all yourdreams brought you?”

“But I’ve seen more here than I everprojected in my schemes, Miss Joan. I’veseen the serenity of the stars in thisvastness; I’ve felt the wind of freedom onmy face.” And to himself: “And I haveseen the firelight leap in a maiden’s eyes,and I have looked deep into the inspiringfountain of her soul.” But there was not theboldness in him, nor the desire to risk herrebuke again, to bring it to his lips.

“Do you think you’ll like it after you getover the lonesomeness?”

“Yes, if I take the lonesomeness.”

“You’ll take it, all right. But if you everdo work up to be a sheepman, and ofcourse you will if you stick to the rangelong enough, you’ll never be able to leaveagain. Sheep tie a person down like a

houseful of children.”

“Maybe I’d never want to go. I’ve had myturn at it out there; I’ve been snubbed anddiscounted, all but despised, because Ihad a little learning and no money to gowith it. I can hide my little learning here,and nobody seems to care about themoney. Yes, I think I’ll stay on the range.”

Joan turned her face away, and he knewthe yearning was in her eyes as theystrained into the starlit horizon after thethings she had never known.

“I don’t see what could ever happen thatwould make me want to stay here,” shesaid at last. She got up with the suddennimbleness of a deer, so quickly thatMackenzie though she must be eitherstartled or offended, 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 thehill somewhere to sleep,” she said, turningtoward the wagon. “I’m going to pile in.Good night.”

Mackenzie sat again by the ashes of thelittle fire after giving her good night. Hefelt that he had suffered in her estimationbecause of his lowly ambition to followher father, and the hundred other obscureheroes of the sheep country, and become aflockmaster, sequestered and safe amongthe sage-gray hills.

Joan expected more of a man who wasable to teach school; expected lofty aims,far-reaching ambitions. But that was

because Joan did not know the world thatlifted the lure of its flare beyond the rim ofher horizon. She must taste it tounderstand, and come back with a bruisedheart to the shelter of her native hills.

And this lonesomeness of which she hadbeen telling him, this dread sickness thatfell upon a man in those solitudes, anddrained away his courage and hope––musthe experience it, like a disease ofadolescence from which few escape? Hedid not believe it. Joan had said she wasimmune to it, having been born in itsatmosphere, knowing nothing but solitudeand silence, in which there was no strangenor fearful thing.

But she fretted under a discontent thatmade her miserable, even though it did not

strain her reason like the lonesomeness.Something was wanting to fill her life. Hecast about him, wondering what it couldbe, wishing that he might supply it andtake away the shadow out of her eyes.

It was his last thought as he fell asleep ina little swale below the wagon where thegrass was tall and soft––that he might findwhat was lacking to make Joan contentwith the peace and plenty of thesheeplands, and supply that want.

CHAPTER VII

THE EASIEST LESSON

“Why do they always begin theconjugations on love?”

There was no perplexity in Joan’s eyes asshe asked the question; rather, a dreamyand far-away look, the open book face-downward on the ground beside her.

“Because it’s a good example of the firsttermination, I suppose,” Mackenziereplied, his eyes measuring off the leagueswith her own, as if they together sought thedoor that opened out of that gray land intoromance that quiet summer afternoon.

“It was that way in the Spanish grammar,”said Joan, shaking her head, unconvincedby the reason he advanced. “There areplenty of words in the first termination thatare just as short. Why? You’re the teacher;you ought to know.”

She said it banteringly, as if she dared himto give the reason. His eyes came backfrom their distant groping, meeting herswith gentle boldness. So for a little whilehe looked silently into her appealing eyes,then turned away.

“Maybe, Joan, because it is the easiestlesson to learn and the hardest to forget,”he said.

Joan bent her gaze upon the ground, a flushtinting 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’ssomething that can’t be left out of it, anymore than it can be left out of life. Well, itdoesn’t need to trouble you and me.”

“No; we could use some other word,”said Joan, turning her face away.

“But mean the same, Joan. I had an oldmaid English teacher when I was a boywho made us conjugate to like instead ofthe more intimate and tender word. Poorold soul! I hope it saved her feelings andeased her regrets.”

“Maybe she’d had a romance,” said Joan.

“I hope so; there’s at least one romance

coming to every woman in this world. Ifshe misses it she’s being cheated.”

Mackenzie took up the Latin grammar,marking off her next lesson, and piling iton with unsparing hand, too. Yet not inaccord with Tim Sullivan’s advice; solelybecause his pupil was one ofextraordinary capacity. There was no suchthing as discouraging Joan; she absorbedlearning and retained it, as the sandstoneabsorbs oil under the pressure of the earth,holding it without wasting a drop until theday it gladdens man in his exploration.

So with Joan. She was storing learning inthe undefiled reservoir of her mind, to befound like unexpected jewels by somehand in after time. As she followed thesheep she carried her books; at night, long

after Charley had gone to sleep, she satwith them by the lantern light in the sheep-wagon. Unspoiled by the diversions anddistractions which divide the mind of thecity student, she acquired and held amonth’s tasks in a week. The thirstytraveler in the desert places had come tothe oasis of her dreams.

Daily Joan rode to the sheep-camp whereMackenzie was learning the business ofrunning sheep under Dad Frazer. Therewere no holidays in the term Joan had setfor herself, no unbending, no relaxationfrom her books. Perhaps she did notexpect her teacher to remain there in thesheeplands, shut away from the life that hehad breathed so long and put aside forwhat seemed to her an unaccountable

whim.

“You’ll be reading Caesar by winter,”Mackenzie told her as she prepared toride back to her camp. “You’ll have totake it slower then; we can’t have lessonsevery day.”

“Why not?” She was standing beside herhorse, hat in hand, her rich hair lifting inthe wind from her wise, placid brow. Herbooks she had strapped to the saddle-horn;there was a yellow slicker at the cantle.

“You’ll be at home, I’ll be out here withthe sheep. I expect about once a week willbe as often as we can make it then.”

“I’ll be out here on the range,” she said,shaking her determined head, “asheepman’s got to stick with his flock

through all kinds of weather. If I run homefor the winter I’ll have to hire a herder,and that would eat my profits up; I’d neverget away from here.”

“Maybe by the time you’ve got enoughmoney to carry out your plans, Joan, you’llnot want to leave.”

“You’ve got to have education to be ableto enjoy money. Some of the sheepmen inthis country––yes, most of them––wouldbe better men if they were poor. Wealth isnothing to them but a dim consciousness ofa new power. It makes them arrogant andunbearable. Did you ever see Matt Hall?”

“I still have that pleasure in reserve. But Ithink you’ll find it’s refinement, ratherthan learning, that a person needs to enjoywealth. That comes more from within than

without.”

“The curtain’s down between me andeverything I want,” Joan said, a wistfulnote of loneliness in her low, soft voice.“I’m going to ride away some day andpush it aside, and see what it’s beenkeeping from me all the years of mylonging. Then, maybe, when I’m satisfiedI’ll come back and make money. I’ve gotsense enough to see it’s here to be made ifa person’s got the sheep to start with andthe range to run them on.”

“Yes, you’ll have to go,” said he, in whatseemed sad thoughtfulness, “to learn it all;I can’t teach you the things your heartdesires most to know. Well, there arebitter waters and sweet waters, Joan;we’ve got to drink them both.”

“It’s the same way here,” she said, “onlywe’ve got sense enough to know the alkaliholes before we drink out of them.”

“But people are not that wise the worldover, Joan.”

Joan stood in silent thought, her far-reaching gaze on the dim curtain of hazewhich hung between her and the world ofmen’s activities, strivings, andlamentations.

“If I had the money I’d go as soon––assoon as I knew a little more,” she said.“But I’ve got to stick; I made that bargainwith dad––he’d never give me the money,but he’ll buy me out when I’ve got enoughto stake me.”

“Your father was over this morning.”

“Yes, I know.”

“He thinks my education’s advanced farenough to trust me with a band of sheep.I’m going to have charge of the flock I’vebeen running here with Dad Frazer.”

“I heard about it.”

“And you don’t congratulate me onbecoming a paid sheepherder, my firststep on the way to flockmaster!”

“I don’t know that you’re to becongratulated,” she returned, facing himseriously. “All there is to success here isbrute strength and endurance againststorms and winter weather––it don’t takeany brains. Out there where you’ve beenand I’m going, there must be somethingbigger and better for a man, it seems to

me. But maybe men get tired of it––I don’tknow.”

“You’ll understand it better when you gothere, Joan.”

“Yes, I’ll understand a lot of things thatare locked up to me now. Well, I don’twant to go as much all the time now as Idid––only in spells sometimes. If you stayhere and teach me, maybe I’ll get over itfor good.”

Joan laughed nervously, half of it forced,her face averted.

“If I could teach you enough to keep youhere, Joan, I’d think it was the biggestthing I’d ever done.”

“I don’t want to know any more if it meansgiving up,” she said.

“It looks like giving up to you, Joan, butI’ve only started,” he corrected her, ingentle spirit.

“I oughtn’t talk that way to you,” she said,turning to him contritely, her earnest eyeslifted to his, “it’s none of my businesswhat you do. If you hadn’t come here I’dnever have heard of––of amare, maybe.”

Joan bent her head, a flush over her browncheeks, a smile of mischief at the cornersof her mouth. Mackenzie laughed, butstrained and unnaturally, his own toughface burning with a hot tide of mountingblood.

“Somebody else would have taught you––you’d have conjugated it in anotherlanguage, maybe,” he said.

“Yes, you say it’s the easiest lesson tolearn,” she nodded, soberly now. “Haveyou taught it to many––many––girls?”

“According to the book, Joan,” hereturned; “only that way.”

Joan drew a deep breath, and lookedaway over the hills, and smiled. But shesaid no more, after the way of one whohas relieved the mind on a doubted point.

“I expect I’ll be getting a taste of thelonesomeness here of nights pretty soon,”Mackenzie said, feeling himself in anawkward, yet not unpleasant situation withthis frank girl’s rather impertinentquestion still burning in his heart. “Dad’sgoing to leave me to take charge ofanother flock.”

“I’ll try to keep you so busy you’ll nothave it very bad,” she said.

“Yes, and you’ll pump your fount ofknowledge dry in a hurry if you don’tslow down a little,” he returned. “At thepace you’ve set you’ll have to import aprofessor to take you along, unless onestrays in from somewhere.”

“I don’t take up with strays,” said Joan,rather loftily.

“I think Dad’s getting restless,”Mackenzie said, hastening to cover hismistake.

“He goes away every so often,” Joanexplained, “to see his Mexican wife downaround El Paso somewhere.”

“Oh, that explains it. He didn’t mention

her to me.”

“He will, all right. He’ll cut out to see herin a little while, more than likely, but he’llcome drifting back with the shearers in thespring like he always does. It seems to melike everybody comes back to the sheepcountry that’s ever lived in it a while. Iwonder if I’d want to come back, too?”

It was a speculation upon whichMackenzie did not feel called to makecomment. Time alone would prove to Joanwhere her heart lay anchored, as it provesto all who go wandering in its own bitterway at last.

“I don’t seem to want to go away as longas I’m learning something,” Joanconfessed, a little ashamed of theadmission, it appeared, from her manner

of refusing to lift her head.

Mackenzie felt a great uplifting in hisheart, as a song cheers it when it comesgladly at the close of a day of perplexityand doubt and toil. He reached out hishand as if to touch her and tell her howthis dawning of his hope made him glad,but withdrew it, dropping it at his side asshe looked up, a lively color in hercheeks.

“As long as you’ll stay and teach me, thereisn’t any particular use for me to leave, isthere?” she inquired.

“If staying here would keep you, Joan, I’dnever leave,” he told her, his voice sograve and earnest that it trembled a littleon the low notes.

Joan drew her breath again with that longinspiration which was like a satisfiedsigh.

“Well, I must go,” she said.

But she did not move, and Mackenzie,drawing nearer, put out his hand in hisway of silent appeal again.

“Not that I don’t want you to know whatthere is out there,” he said, “but becauseI’d save you the disappointment, thedisillusionment, and the heartache that toooften go with the knowledge of the world.You’d be better for it if you never knew,living here undefiled like a spring thatcomes out of the rocks into the sun.”

“Well, I must go,” said Joan, sighing withrepletion again, but taking no step toward

her waiting horse.

Although it was a moment which seemedfull of things to be said, neither had wordsfor it, but stood silently while the daywent out in glory around them. Dad Frazerwas bringing his murmuring flock home tothe bedding-ground on the hillside belowthe wagon; the wind was low as a lover’sbreath, lifting Joan’s russet hair from herpure, placid brow.

And she must go at last, with a word ofparting from the saddle, and her hand heldout to him in a new tenderness as if goinghome were a thing to be remembered. Andas 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, whichwas red upon the hill, and stood for a littlemoment sharply against the fiery sky towave him a farewell.

“So easily learned, Joan; so hard toforget,” said Mackenzie, speaking as if hesent his voice after her, a whisper on thewind, although she was half a mile away.A moment more, and the hill stood emptybetween them. Mackenzie turned toprepare supper for the coming of DadFrazer, who would complain againstbooks and the nonsense contained in themif the food was not on the board when hecame up the hill.

CHAPTER VIII

THE SHEEP-KILLER

It was dusk when Dad Frazer drove theslow-drifting flock home to its sleepingplace, which tomorrow night very likelywould be on some hillside no softer, manymiles away. Only a few days together thecamp remained in one place, no longerthan it took the sheep to crop the herbagewithin easy reach. Then came the camp-mover and hauled the wagon to freshpastures in that illimitable, gray-greenland.

Dad Frazer was a man of sixty or sixty-

five, who had been an army teamster in thedays of frontier posts. He was slender andsinewy, with beautiful, glimmering,silvery hair which he wore in long curlsand kept as carefully combed as any dandythat ever pranced at the court of a king. Itwas his one vanity, his dusty, greasyraiment being his last thought.

Dad’s somber face was brown andweathered, marked with deep lines,covered over with an ashy, short growthof beard which he clipped once in twoweeks with sheep-shears when he didn’tlose count of the days.

Frazer always wore an ancient militaryhat with a leather thong at the back of hishead drawn tight across his flowing hair.The brim of this hat turned up in the back

as if he had slept in it many years, whichwas indeed the case, and down in the frontso low over his brows that it gave him asullen and clouded cast, which theredundancy of his spirits and words atonce denied.

For Dad Frazer was a loquacioussheepherder, an exception among themorose and silent men who follow thatisolated calling upon the lonely range. Hetalked to the dogs when there was nobodyby, to the sheep as he scattered them for aneven chance between weak and strongover the grazing lands, and to himselfwhen no other object presented. He sworewith force and piquancy, and originalembellishments for old-time oaths whichwas like a sharp sauce to an unsavory

dish.

Frazer was peculiar in another way. Heliked a soft bed to pound the ground onafter his long days after the sheep, and tothat end kept a roll of sheepskins under thewagon. More than that, he always washedbefore eating, even if he had to divide thelast water in the keg.

Now as he was employed with hisablutions, after a running fire of talk fromthe time he came within hearing to themoment the water smothered his voiceover the basin, Mackenzie saw him turn aneye in his direction every little whilebetween the soaping and the washing ofhis bearded face. The old fellow seemedbursting with restraint of something that hehad not told or asked about. Mackenzie

could read him like a thermometer.

“What’s the matter, Dad––rattlesnakes?”he asked.

“Rattlesnakes nothin’!” returned the oldman.

“I thought another one had been crawlingup your leg.”

“Nearer boey constructors! Anybody beenhere but Joan?”

“No.”

Dad came over to the tail of the wagon,where Mackenzie had supper spread on aboard, a box at each end, for that was asheep-camp de luxe. He stood a littlewhile looking about in the gloom, his headtipped as if he listened, presently taking

his place, unaccountably silent, anduncomfortably so, as Mackenzie couldvery well see.

“You didn’t lose a dog, did you, Dad?”

“Dog nothin’! Do I look like a man that’dlose a dog?”

“Well, Dad,” Mackenzie said, in his slow,thoughtful way, “I don’t exactly know howa man that would lose a dog looks, but Idon’t believe you do.”

“Swan Carlson’s back on the range!” saidDad, delivering it before he was ready,perhaps, and before he had fully preparedthe way, but unable to hold it a secondlonger.

“Swan Carlson?”

“Back on the range.”

“So they fixed him up in the hospital atCheyenne?”

“I reckon they must ’a’. He’s back runnin’his sheep, and that woman of his’n she’swith him. Swan run one of his herders offthe first rattle out of the box, said he’dbeen stealin’ sheep while he was gone.That’s one of his old tricks to keep frompayin’ a man.”

“It sounds like him, all right. Have youseen him?”

“No. Matt Hall come by this evenin’, andtold me.”

“I’m glad Swan got all right again,anyhow, even if he’s no better to his wifethan he was before. I was kind of worried

about him.”

“Yes, and I’ll bet he’s meaner than heever was, knockin’ that woman aroundlike a sack of sawdust the way he alwaysdid. I reckon he gets more fun out of herthat way than he does keepin’ her tied.”

“He can hang her for all I’ll ever interferebetween them again, Dad.”

“That’s right. It don’t pay to shove inbetween a man and his wife in their fussesand disturbances. I know a colonel in thearmy that’s got seventeen stitches in hisbay winder right now from buttin’ inbetween a captain and his woman. Thelady she slid a razor over his vest. They’lldo 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 onfor forty years.”

“Who is Matt Hall, and where’s his ranch,Dad? I’ve been hearing about him and hisbrother, Hector, ever since I came uphere.”

“Them Hall boys used to be cattlemen upon the Sweetwater, but they was run out ofthere on account of suspicion of rustlin’, Ihear. They come down to this countryabout four years ago and started up sheep,usin’ on Cottonwood about nine or twelvemiles southeast from here. Them fellersdon’t hitch up with nobody on this rangebut Swan Carlson, and I reckon Swan onlyrespects ’em because they’re the only menin this country that packs guns regular any

more.”

“Swan don’t pack a gun as a regularthing?”

“I ain’t never seen him with one on.Hector Hall he’s always got a couple of’em on him, and Matt mostly has one insight. You can gamble on it he’s got anautomatic in his pocket when he don’tstrap it on him in the open.”

“I don’t see what use a man’s got for a gunup here among sheep and sheepmen. Theymust be expecting somebody to call onthem from the old neighborhood.”

“Yes, I figger that’s about the size of it. Idon’t know what Matt was doin’ overaround here this evenin’; I know I didn’tsend for him.”

“Joan spoke of him this afternoon. Fromwhat she said, I thought he must besomething of a specimen. What kind of alooking duck is he?”

“Matt’s a mixture of a goriller and a gooseegg. He’s a long-armed, short-legged,gimlet-eyed feller with a head like a eggupside down. You could split a board onthat feller’s head and never muss a hair. Inever saw a man that had a chin like MattHall. They say a big chin’s the sign ofstrength, and if that works out Matt musthave a mind like a brigadier general. Hisface is all chin; chin’s an affliction onMatt Hall; it’s a disease. Wait till you seehim; that’s all I can say.”

“I’ll know him when I do.”

“Hector ain’t so bad, but he’s got a look in

his eyes like a man that’d grab you by thenose and cut your throat, and grin while hewas doin’ it.”

Mackenzie made no comment on thesenew and picturesque charactersintroduced by Dad into the drama that wasforming for enactment in that place. Hefilled 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 littleM e x i c a n cigarette with corn-huskwrapper, a peppery tobacco filling thatsmarted the eyes when it burned, of whichhe must have carried thousands when heleft the border in the spring.

“Tim was over today,” said Mackenzie.

“What did he want?”

“About this business between him and me.Is it usual, Dad, for a man to work a yearat forty dollars a month and found beforehe goes in as a partner on the increase ofthe flock he runs?”

“What makes you ask me that, John?”

“Only because there wasn’t anything saidabout it when I agreed with Tim to go towork here with you and learn therudiments of handling a band of sheep. Hesprung that on me today, when I thought Iwas about to begin my career as acapitalist. Instead of that, I’ve got a yearahead of me at ten dollars a month lessthan the ordinary herder gets. I just wanted

to know.”

“Sheepmen are like sand under the feetwhen it comes to dealin’ with ’em; I neverknew one that was in the same placetwice. You’ve got a lot of tricks to learnin this trade, and I guess this is one ofthem. I don’t believe Tim ever intends tolet you in on shares; that ain’t his style.Never did take anybody in on shares butJoan, that I know of. It looks to me likeTim’s workin’ you for all he can git out ofyou. You’ll herd for Tim a year at fortydollars, and teach Joan a thousanddollars’ worth while you’re doin’ it.You’re a mighty obligin’ feller, it lookslike to me.”

Mackenzie sat thinking it over. He rolledit in his mind quite a while, considering

its most unlikely side, considering it as aquestion of comparative values, trying toconvince himself that, if nothing morecame of it than a year’s employment, hewould be even better off than teachingschool. If Tim was indeed planning toprofit doubly by him during that year, Joancould have no knowledge of his scheme,he was sure.

On Joan’s account he would remain, hetold himself, at last, feeling easier andless simple for the decision. Joan neededhim, she counted on him. Going would bea sad disappointment, a bitterdiscouragement, to her. All on Joan’saccount, of course, he would remain; Joan,with her russet hair, the purity of Octoberskies in her eyes. Why, of course. Duty

made it plain to him; solely on account ofJoan.

“I’d rather be a foot-loose shearer,herdin’ in between like I do, than therichest sheepman on the range,” said Dad.“They’re tied down to one little spot; theywork out a hole in their piece of the earthlike a worm. It ain’t no life. I can havemore fun on forty dollars than TimSullivan can out of forty thousand.”

Dad got out his greasy duck coat withsheepskin collar, such as cattlemen andsheepmen, and all kinds of outdoor men inthat country wore, for the night was cooland damp with dew. Together they satsmoking, no more discussion betweenthem, the dogs out of sight down the hillnear the sheep.

Not a sound came out of the sheep, beddedon the hillside in contentment, secure intheir trust of men and dogs. All day as theygrazed there rose a murmur out of them, asof discontent, complaint, or pain. Nowtheir quavering, pathetic voices were asstill as the wind. There was not a shuffleof hoof, not a sigh.

Mackenzie thought of Joan, and theinfluence this solitary life, these nightsilences, had borne in shading hercharacter with the melancholy which wasso plainly apparent in her longing to beaway. She yearned for the sound of life,for the warmth of youth’s eager firebeyond the dusty gray loneliness of thissequestered place. Still, this was whatmen and women in the crowded places

thought of and longed toward as freedom.Loose-footed here upon the hills, onemight pass as free as the wind, indeed, butthere was something like the pain ofprison isolation in these night silenceswhich bore down upon a man and madehim old.

A sudden commotion among the sheep,terrified bleating, quick scurrying of feet,shook Mackenzie out of his reflections.The dogs charged down the hill and stoodbaying the disturber of the flock withsavage alarm, in which there was a note offear. Dad stood a moment listening, thenreached into the wagon for the rifle.

“Don’t go down there!” he warnedMackenzie, who was running toward thecenter of disturbance. “That’s a grizzly––

don’t you hear them dogs?”

Mackenzie stopped. The advancestampede of the terrified flock rushed pasthim, dim in the deeper darkness near theground. Below on the hillside where thesheep bedded he could see nothing. Dadcame up with the gun.

The sheep were making no outcry now,and scarcely any sound of movement.After their first startled break they hadbunched, and were standing in their wayof pathetic, paralyzing fear, waiting whatmight befall. Dad fired several quick shotstoward the spot where the dogs werecharging and retreating, voices thick intheir throats from their bristling terror ofthe thing that had come to lay tribute uponthe flock.

“Don’t go down there!” Dad cautionedagain. “Git the lantern and light it––maybewhen he sees it he’ll run. It’s a grizzly. Ididn’t think there was one in forty miles.”

Mackenzie took hold of the gun.

“Give it to me––hand me another clip.”

Dad yielded it, warning Mackenzie againagainst any rash movement. But his wordswere unheeded if not unheard. Mackenziewas running down the hillside toward thedogs. Encouraged by his coming, theydashed forward, Mackenzie halting topeer into the darkness ahead. There was asound of trampling, a crunching as of therending of bones. He fired; ran a littlenearer, fired again.

The dogs were pushing ahead now in

pursuit of whatever it was that fled. Amoment, and Mackenzie heard the quickbreak of a galloping horse; fired hisremaining shots after it, and called Dad tofetch the light.

When the horse started, the dogs returnedto the flock, too wise to waste energy in avain pursuit. At a word from Mackenziethey began collecting the shudderingsheep. Dad Frazer came bobbing down thehill with the lantern, breathing loud in hisexcitement.

“Lord!” said he, when he saw the havochis light revealed; “a regular oldmurderin’ stock-killer. And I didn’t thinkthere was any grizzly in forty miles.”

Mackenzie took the lantern, sweeping itslight over the mangled bodies of several

sheep, torn limb from limb, scatteredabout as if they had been the center of anexplosion.

“A murderin’ old stock-killer!” said Dad,panting, out of breath.

Mackenzie held up the light, looking theold man in the face.

“A grizzly don’t hop a horse and lope off,and I never met one yet that wore boots,”said he. He swung the light near theground again, pointing to the trampledfootprints among the mangled carcasses.

“It was a man!” said Dad, in terrifiedamazement. “Tore ’em apart like they wasrabbits!” He looked up, his weatheredface white, his eyes staring. “It takes––ittakes––Lord! Do you know how much

muscle it takes to tear a sheep up that a-way?”

Mackenzie did not reply. He stood, turninga bloody heap of wool and torn flesh withhis foot, stunned by this unexampledexcess of human ferocity.

Dad recovered from his amazementpresently, bent and studied the trampledground.

“I ain’t so sure,” he said. “Them lookslike man’s tracks, but a grizzly’s got a footlike a nigger, and one of them big fellersmakes a noise like a lopin’ horse when hetears off through the bresh. I tell you, John,no human man that ever lived could take alive sheep and tear it up that a-way!”

“All right, then; it was a bear,” Mackenzie

said, not disposed to argue the matter, forargument would not change what he knewto be a fact, nor yet convince Dad Frazeragainst his reason and experience. ButMackenzie knew that they were thefootprints of a man, and that the noise ofthe creature running away from camp wasthe noise of a galloping horse.

CHAPTER IX

A TWO-GUN MAN

“You know, John, if a man’s goin’ to be asheepman, John, he’s got to keep awakeday and night. He ain’t goin’ to set gabbin’and let a grizzly come right up under hisnose and kill his sheep. It’s the differencebetween the man that wouldn’t do it andthe man that would that makes thedifference between a master and a man.That’s the difference that stands againstDad Frazer. He’d never work up topartnership in a band of sheep if he livedseven hundred years.”

So Tim Sullivan, a few days after the raidon John Mackenzie’s flock. He had comeover on hearing of it from Dad Frazer,who had gone to take charge of anotherband. Tim was out of humor over the loss,small as it was out of the thousands henumbered in his flocks. He concealed hisfeelings as well as he could under afriendly face, but his words were hard, theaccusation and rebuke in them sharp.

Mackenzie flared up at the raking-overTim gave him, and turned his face away tohold down a hot reply. Only after astruggle he composed himself to speak.

“I suppose it was because you saw thesame difference in me that you welched onyour agreement to put me in a partner onthe increase of this flock as soon as Dad

taught me how to work the sheep andhandle the dogs,” he said. “That’s an easyway for a man to slide out from under hisobligations; it would apply anywhere inlife as well as in the sheep business. I tellyou now I don’t think it was square.”

“Now, lad, I don’t want you to look at itthat way, not at all, not at all, lad.” Timwas as gentle as oil in his front now,afraid that he was in the way of losing agood herder whom he had tricked intoworking at a bargain price. “I don’t thinkyou understand the lay of it, if you’ve gotthe impression I intended to take you in atthe jump-off, John. It’s never done; it’snever heard of. A man’s got to provehimself, like David of old. There’s a lot ofGoliaths here on the range he’s got to meet

and show he’s able to handle before anyman would trust him full shares on theincrease of two thousand sheep.”

“You didn’t talk that way at first,”Mackenzie charged, rather sulkily.

“I took to you when I heard how you laidSwan out in that fight you had with him,John. That was a recommendation. But itwasn’t enough, for it was nothing but achance lucky blow you got in on him thatgive you the decision. If you’d ’a’ missedhim, where would you ’a’ been at?”

“That’s got nothing to do with your makinga compact and breaking it. You’ve got noright to come here beefing around aboutthe loss of a few sheep with a breach ofcontract on your side of the fence. You’veput it up to me now like you should have

done in the beginning. All right; I’ll provemyself, like David. But remember therewas another fellow by the name of Jacobthat went in on a livestock deal with aslippery man, and stick to your agreementthis time.”

“I don’t want you to feel that I’m takin’advantage of you, John; I don’t want youto feel that way.”

“I don’t just feel it; I know it. I’ll pay youfor the seven sheep the grizzly killed, andtake it out of his hide when I catch him.”

This offer mollified Tim, melting himdown to smiles. He shook hands withMackenzie, all the heartiness on his side,refusing the offer with volubleprotestations that he neither expected norrequired it.

“You’ve got the makin’ of a sheepman inyou, John; I always thought you had.But–––”

“You want to be shown. All right; I’mgame, even at forty dollars and found.”

Tim beamed at this declaration, but thefires of his satisfaction he was craftyenough to hide from even Mackenzie’spenetrating eyes. Perhaps the glow wasdue to a thought that this schoolmaster,who owed his notoriety in the sheeplandsto a lucky blow, would fail, leaving himfar ahead on the deal. He tightened hisgirths and set his foot in the stirrup, readyto mount and ride home; paused so, handon the saddle-horn, with a queer, half-puzzled, half-suspicious look in his sheep-

wise eyes.

“Wasn’t there something else that fellerJacob was workin’ for besides the interestin the stock?” he asked.

“Seems to me like there was,” Mackenziereturned, carelessly. “The main thing Iremember in the transaction was the stonehe set up between the old man and himselfon the range. ‘The Lord watch betweenthee and me,’ you know, it had on it.That’s a mighty good motto yet for asheepherder to front around where hisboss can read it. A man’s got to havesomebody to keep an eye on a sheepmanwhen his back’s turned, even today.”

Tim laughed, swung into the saddle,where he sat roving his eyes over therange, and back to the little band of sheep

that seemed only a handful of dust in theunbounded pastures where they fed. Thehillsides were green in that favoredsection, greener than anywhere Mackenziehad been in the sheeplands, the grassalready long for the lack of mouths tofeed. Tim’s face glowed at the sight.

“This is the best grazin’ this range hasever produced in my day,” he said, “toomuch of it here for that little band you’rerunnin’. I’ll send Dad over with threethousand more this week. You can camptogether––it’ll save me a wagon, and he’llbe company. How’s Joan gettin on withthe learnin’?”

“She’s eating it up.”

“I was afraid it’d be that way,” said Tim,gloomily; “you can’t discourage that girl.”

“She’s too sincere and capable to bediscouraged. I laid down my hand longago.”

“And it’s a pity to ruin a goodsheepwoman with learnin’,” Tim said,shaking his head with the sadness of it.

Tim rode away, leaving Mackenzie to hisreflections as he watched his boss’ broadback grow smaller from hill to hill. Thesheepherder smiled as he recalled Tim’spuzzled inquiry on the other considerationof Jacob’s contract with the slipperyLaban.

What is this thou hast done unto me? Didnot I serve with thee for Rachel?Wherefore then hast thou beguiled me?“Tim would do it, too,” Mackenzie said,

nodding his grave head; “he’d work offthe wrong girl on a man as sure as he hadtwo.”

It was queer, the way Tim had thought, atthe last minute, of the “something else”Jacob had worked for; queer, the way hehad turned, his foot up in the stirrup, thatpuzzled, suspicious expression in hismild, shrewd face. Even if he shouldremember on the way home, or get out hisBible on his arrival and look the story up,there would be nothing of a parallelbetween the case of Jacob and that of JohnMackenzie to worry his sheepman’s head.For though Jacob served his seven yearsfor Rachel, which “seemed to him but afew days, for the love he had to her,” he,John Mackenzie, was not serving Tim

Sullivan for Joan.

“Nothing to that!” said he, but smiling, adream in his eyes, over the thought of whatmight have been a parallel case withJacob’s, here in the sheeplands of thewestern world.

Tim was scarcely out of sight when a mancame riding over the hills from theopposite direction. Mackenzie sighted himafar off, watching him as each hill liftedhim to a plainer view. He was a stranger,and a man unsparing of his horse, pushingit uphill and down with unaltered speed.He rode as if the object of his journey laya long distance ahead, and his time forreaching it was short.

Mackenzie wondered if the fellow hadstolen the horse, having it more than half

in mind to challenge his passage until hecould give an account of his haste, whenhe saw that the rider had no intention ofgoing by without speech. As he mountedthe crest of the hill above the flock, heswung straight for the spot whereMackenzie stood.

The stranger drew up with a short grunt ofgreeting, turning his gaze over the range asif in search of strayed stock. He was ashort, spare man, a frowning cast in hiseyes, a face darkly handsome, butunsympathetic as a cougar’s. He lookeddown at Mackenzie presently, as if he hadput aside the recognition of his presenceas a secondary matter, a cold insolence inhis challenging, sneering eyes.

“What are you doing over here east of

Horsethief?” he inquired, bending hisblack brows in a frown, his smallmustache twitching in catlike threat of asnarl.

“I’m grazing that little band of sheep yousee down yonder,” Mackenzie returned,evenly, running his eyes over the fellow’sgear.

This was rather remarkable for a land outof which strife and contention, murder andsudden death were believed to havepassed long ago. The man wore tworevolvers, slung about his slender frameon a broad belt looped around forcartridges. These loops were empty, butthe weight of the weapons themselvessagged the belt far down on the wearer’ships. His leather cuffs were garnitured

with silver stars in the Mexican style; hewore a red stone in his black necktie,which was tied with care, the flowingends of it tucked into the bosom of hisdark-gray flannel shirt.

“If you’re tryin’ to be funny, cut it out; I’mnot a funny man,” he said. “I asked youwhat you’re doing over here east ofHorsethief Cañon?”

“I don’t know that it’s any of yourbusiness where I run my sheep,”Mackenzie told him, resentful of the man’sinsolence.

“Tim Sullivan knows this is our wintergrazing land, and this grass is in reserve.If he didn’t tell you it was because hewanted to run you into trouble, I guess.You’ll have to get them sheep out of here,

and do it right now.”

The stranger left it to Mackenzie’simagination to fix his identity, not bendingto reveal his name. Hector Hall,Mackenzie knew him to be, on account ofhis pistols, on account of the coldmeanness of his eyes which Dad Frazerhad described as holding such a throat-cutting look. But armed as he was, severeand flash-tempered as he seemed,Mackenzie was not in any sort of a flurryto give ground before him. He looked upat him coolly, felt in his pocket for hispipe, filled it with deliberation, andsmoked.

“Have you got a lease on this land?” heasked.

“I carry my papers right here,” Hall

replied, touching his belt.

Mackenzie looked about the range as ifconsidering which way to go. Then,turning again to Hall:

“I don’t know any bounds but the horizonwhen I’m grazing on government landthat’s as much mine as the next man’s. Idon’t like to refuse a neighbor a request,but my sheep are going to stay right here.”

Hall leaned over a little, putting out hishand in a warning gesture, drawing hisdark brows in a scowl.

“Your head’s swelled, young feller,” hesaid, “on account of that lucky thump youlanded on Swan Carlson. You’ve gotabout as much chance with that man as youhave with a grizzly bear, and you’ve got

less chance with me. You’ve got till thistime tomorrow to be six miles west ofhere with that band of sheep.”

Hall rode off with that word, leaving apretty good impression that he meant it,and that it was final. Mackenzie hadn’t adoubt that he would come back to see howwell the mandate had been obeyed nextday.

If there was anything to Hall’s claim onthat territory, by agreement or right ofpriority which sheepmen were supposedto respect between themselves, TimSullivan knew it, Mackenzie reflected.For a month past Tim had been sendinghim eastward every time the wagon wasmoved, a scheme to widen the distancebetween him and Joan and make it an

obstacle in her road, he believed at thetime. Now it began to show anotherpurpose. Perhaps this was the winterpasture claimed by the Hall brothers, andTim had sent him in where he was afraidto come himself.

It seemed a foolish thing to squabble overa piece of grazing land where all theworld lay out of doors, but Hector Hall’sway of coming up to it was unpleasant. Itwas decidedly offensive, bullying,oppressive. If he should give way beforeit he’d just as well leave the range,Mackenzie knew; his force would be spentthere, his day closed before it had fairlybegun. If he designed seriously to remainthere and become a flockmaster, and thathe intended to do, with all the sincerity in

him, he’d have to meet Hall’s bluff with astronger one, and stand his ground,whether right or wrong. If wrong, agentleman’s adjustment could be made, hishonor saved.

So deciding, he settled that matter, and putit out of his head until its hour. There wassomething more pleasant to cogitate––theparallel of Jacob and Laban, Tim Sullivanand himself. It was strange how the craftof Laban had come down to Tim Sullivanacross that mighty flight of time. It wouldserve Tim the right turn, in truth, ifsomething should come of it between himand Joan. He smiled in anticipatorypleasure at Tim’s discomfiture andsurprise.

But that was not in store for him, he

sighed. Joan would shake her wings out ina little while, and fly away, leaving himthere, a dusty sheepman, among the husksof his dream. Still, a man might dream ona sunny afternoon. There was nointerdiction against it; Hector Hall, withhis big guns, could not ride in and order aman off that domain. A shepherd had theancient privilege of dreams; he mightdrink himself drunk on them, insane onthem in the end, as so many of them weresaid to do in that land of lonesomeness,where there was scarcely an echo to givea man back his own faint voice in mockeryof his solitude.

Evening, with the sheep homing to thebedding-ground, brought reflections of adifferent hue. Since the raid on his flock

Mackenzie had given up his bunk in thewagon for a bed under a bush on thehillside nearer the sheep. Night after nighthe lay with the rifle at his hand, waitingthe return of the grisly monster who hadspent his fury on the innocent simpletonsin his care.

Whether it was Swan Carlson, with thestrength of his great arms, driven tomadness by the blow he had received, orwhether it was another whom the vastsolitudes of that country had unhinged,Mackenzie did not know. But that it wasman, he had no doubt.

Dad Frazer had gone away unconvinced,unshaken in his belief that it was a grizzly.Tim Sullivan had come over with thesame opinion, no word of doubt in his

mouth. But Mackenzie knew that when heshould meet that wild night-prowler hewould face a thing more savage than abear, a thing as terrible to grapple with asthe saber-tooth whose bones lay deepunder the hills of that vast pasture-land.

CHAPTER X

WILD RIDERS OF THE RANGE

Joan missed her lessons for three daysrunning, a lapse so unusual as to causeMackenzie the liveliest concern. Hefeared that the mad creature who spent hisfury tearing sheep limb from limb mighthave visited her camp, and that she hadfallen into his bloody hands.

A matter of eight or nine miles laybetween their camps; Mackenzie had nohorse to cover it. More than once he wason the point of leaving the sheep to shiftfor themselves and striking out on foot;

many times he walked a mile or more inthat direction, to mount the highest hill hecould discover, and stand long, sweepingthe blue distance with troubled eyes. Yetin the end he could not go. Whatever waswrong, he could not set right at that latehour, he reasoned; to leave the sheepwould be to throw open the gates of theirdefense to dangers always ready todescend upon them. The sheep were in hiscare; Joan was not. That was what TimSullivan would say, in his hard way ofholding a man to his bargain and his task.

Joan came late in the afternoon, rising thenearest hilltop with a suddenness quitestartling, waving a cheerful greeting as ifto assure him from a distance that all waswell. She stood looking at him in

amazement when she flipped to the groundlike a bird, her face growing white, hereyes big.

“Well, what in the world! Where did youget those guns?” she said.

“A fellow left them here the other day.”

“A fellow?” coming nearer, lookingsharply at the belt. “That’s Hector Hall’sbelt––I’ve seen him wearing it! There hisinitials are, worked out in silver tacks!Where did you get it?”

“Mr. Hall left it here. What kept you,Joan? I’ve been worried about you.”

“Hector Hall left it here? With both of hisguns?”

“Yes, he left the guns with it. What was

the matter, Joan?”

Joan looked him up and down, her face astudy between admiration and fear.

“Left his guns! Well, what did you do withhim?”

“I suppose he went home, Joan. Didanything happen over your way to keepyou?”

“Charley was sick,” she said, shortly,abstractedly, drowned in her wonder ofthe thing he told with his native reluctancewhen questioned on his own exploits.“Did you have a fight with Hector?”

“Is he all right now?”

“Charley’s all right; he ate too many wildgooseberries. Did you have a fight with

Hector Hall, Mr. Mackenzie?”

She came near him as she questioned him,her great, soft eyes pleading in fear, andlaid her hand on his shoulder as if to holdhim against any further evasion. He smileda little, in his stingy way of doing it, takingher hand to allay her tumult of distress.

“Not much of a fight, Joan. Mr. Hall cameover here to drive me off of this range,and I had to take his guns away from himto keep him from hurting me. That’s allthere was to it.”

“All there was to it!” said Joan. “Why,he’s one of the meanest men that everlived! He’ll never rest till he kills you. Iwish you’d let him have the range.”

“Is it his?”

“No, it belongs to us; we’ve got a lease onit from the government, and pay rent for itevery year. Swan Carlson and the Hallboys have bluffed us out of it for the pastthree summers and run their sheep overhere in the winter-time. I always wantedto fight for it, but dad let them have it forthe sake of peace. I guess it was the bestway, after all.”

“As long as I was right, my last worry isgone, Joan. You’re not on the contestedterritory, are you?”

“No; they lay claim as far as HorsethiefCañon, but they’d just as well claim allour lease––they’ve got just as much rightto it.”

“That ends the matter, then––as far as I’mconcerned.”

“I wonder what kind of an excuse Hectormade when he went home without hisguns!” she speculated, looking off over thehills in the direction of the Hall brothers’ranch.

“Maybe he’s not accountable to anybody,and doesn’t have to explain.”

“I guess that’s right,” Joan said, stillwandering in her gaze.

Below them the flock was spread, thedogs on its flanks. Mackenzie pointed tothe sun.

“We’ll have to get to work; you’ll bestarting back in an hour.”

But there was no work in Joan that day,nothing but troubled speculation on whatform Hector Hall’s revenge would take,

and when the stealthy blow of hisresentment would fall. Try as he would,Mackenzie could not fasten her mind uponthe books. She would begin with a braveresolution, only to wander away, the bookclosed presently upon her thumb, her eyessearching the hazy hills where trouble layout of sight. At last she gave it up, with alittle catching sob, tears in her honesteyes.

“They’ll kill you––I know they will!” shesaid.

“I don’t think they will,” he returned,abstractedly, “but even if they do, Rachel,there’s nobody to grieve.”

“Rachel? My name isn’t Rachel,” saidJoan, a little hurt. For it was not inflippancy or banter that he had called her

out of her name; his eyes were not withina hundred leagues of that place, his heartaway with them, it seemed, when hespoke.

He turned to her, a color ofembarrassment in his brown face.

“I was thinking of another story, Joan.”

“Of another girl,” she said, perhaps atrifle resentfully. At least Mackenziethought he read a resentful note in thequick rejoinder, a resentful flash of colorin her cheek.

“Yes, but a mighty old girl, Joan,” heconfessed, smiling with a feeling oflightness around his heart.

“Somebody you used to know?” faceturned away, voice light in a careless,

artificial note.

“She was a sheepman’s daughter,” hesaid.

“Did you know her down at Jasper?”

“No, I never knew her at all, Rach––Joan.That was a long, long time ago.”

Joan brightened at this news. She ceaseddenying him her face, even smiled a little,seeming to forget Hector Hall and hispending vengeance.

“Well, what about her?” she asked.

He told her which Rachel he had in mind,but Joan only shook her head and lookedtroubled.

“I never read the Bible; we haven’t evengot one.”

He told her the story, beginning withJacob’s setting out, and his coming to thewell with the great stone at its mouthwhich the maidens could not roll away.

“So Jacob rolled the stone away andwatered Rachel’s sheep,” he said, pausingwith that much of it, looking off down thedraw between the hills in a mind-wandering way. Joan touched his arm,impatient with such disjointed narrative.

“What did he do then?”

“Why, he kissed her.”

“I think he was kind of fresh,” said Joan.But she laughed a little, blushing rosily, abright light in her eyes. “Tell me the restof it, John.”

Mackenzie went on with the ancient

pastoral tale of love. Joan was indignantwhen she heard how Laban gave Jacob theweak-eyed girl for a wife in place of hisbeloved Rachel, for whom he had workedthe seven years.

“Jake must have been a bright one!” saidshe. “How could the old man put one overon him like that?”

“You’ll have to read the story,” saidMackenzie. “It’s sundown; don’t you thinkyou’d better be going back to camp,Joan?”

But Joan was in no haste to leave. Shewalked with him as he worked the sheepto their bedding-ground, her bridle-reinover her arm. She could get back to campbefore dark, she said; Charley would notbe worried.

Joan could not have said as much forherself. Her eyes were pools of trouble,her face was anxious and strained. Shewent silently beside Mackenzie while thedogs worked the sheep along with morethan human patience, almost humanintelligence. Frequently she looked intohis face with a plea dumbly eloquent, butdid not again put her fear for him intowords. Only when she stood beside herhorse near the sheep-wagon, ready tomount and leave him to his solitarysupper, she spoke of Hector Hall’srevolvers, which Mackenzie hadunstrapped and put aside.

“What are you going to do with them,John?”

She had fallen into the use of that familiar

address only that day, moved by thetenderness of the old tale he had told her,perhaps; drawn nearer to him by thediscovery of a gentle sentiment in himwhich she had not known before. He heardit with a warm uplifting of the heart, allwithout reason, he knew, for it was therange way to be familiar on a shorteracquaintance than theirs.

“I’m going to give them back to him,” hesaid. “I’ve been carrying them aroundever since he left them in the hope he’d getashamed of himself and come for them.”

Joan started at the sound of gallopinghoofs, which rose suddenly out ofcomplete silence as the riders mounted thecrest behind them.

“I guess he’s coming for them now,” she

said.

There were two riders coming down theslope toward them at a pace altogetherreckless. Mackenzie saw at a glance thatneither of them was Hector Hall, but one awoman, her loose garments flapping asshe rode.

“It’s Swan Carlson and his wife!” he said,unable to cover his amazement at the sight.

“What do you suppose they’re doing overhere?” Joan drew a little nearer as shespoke, her horse shifting to keep by herside.

“No telling. Look how that woman rides!”

There was enough in her wild bearing toexcite admiration and wonder, even in onewho had not seen her under conditions

which promised little of suchdevelopment. She came on at Swan’s side,leaning forward a little, as light and surein the saddle as any cowboy on the range.They bore down toward the sheep-wagonas if they had no intention of halting,jerking their horses up in Indian fashion afew feet from where Mackenzie and Joanstood. The animals slid on stiff legs, hoofsplowing the soft ground, raising a cloud ofdust which dimmed the ridersmomentarily.

Neither of the abrupt visitors spoke. Theysat silently staring, not a rod between themand the two on foot, the woman asunfriendly of face as the man. And SwanCarlson had not improved in this featuresince Mackenzie parted from him in

violence a few weeks before. His red hairwas shorter now, his drooping mustachelonger, the points of it reaching two inchesbelow his chin. He was gaunt of cheek,hollow of eyes, like a man who had gonehungry or suffered a sorrow that ate awayhis heart.

His wife had improved somewhat inoutward appearance. Her face had filled,the pathetic uncertainty had gone from hereyes. She was not uncomely as she satastride her good bay horse, her dividedskirt of corduroy wide on its flanks, aman’s gray shirt laced over her bosom, thecollar open, showing the fairness of herneck. Her abundant hair was braided, andwound closely about her head like a cap.Freedom had made a strange alteration in

her. It seemed, indeed, as if Swan Carlsonhad breathed into her the breath of his ownwild soul, making her over according tothe desire of his heart.

Mackenzie stepped out in invitation forSwan to state the occasion of hisboisterous visit, and stood waiting insilence while the two strange creaturescontinued to stare. Swan lifted his hand ina manner of salutation, no change either offriendship or animosity in his lean, strongface.

“You got a woman, huh? Well, how’ll youtrade?”

Swan glanced from his wife to Joan as hespoke. If there was any recollection in himof the hard usage he had received atMackenzie’s hands, it did not seem to be

bitter.

“Ride on,” said Mackenzie.

Mrs. Carlson urged her horse with suddenstart close to where Joan stood, leaned farover her saddle and peered into the girl’sface. Joan, affronted by the savageimpertinence, met her eyes defiantly, notgiving an inch before the unexpectedcharge.

In that pose of defiant challenge SwanCarlson’s woman peered into the face ofthe girl whose freshness and beauty haddrawn the wild banter from her man’sbold lips. Then, a sudden sweep ofpassion in her face, she lifted her rawhidequirt and struck Joan a bitter blow acrossthe shoulder and neck. Mackenzie sprangbetween them, but Mrs. Carlson, her

defiance passed in that one blow, did notfollow it up. Swan opened wide his greatmouth and pealed out his roaring laughter,not a line of mirth softening in his face, nota gleam of it in his eyes. It was a soundwithout a note to express human warmth,or human satisfaction.

Joan flamed up like a match in oil. Shedropped her bridle-reins, springing back aquick step, turning her eyes about for someweapon by which she might retaliate.Hector Hall’s pistols hung on the end-gateof the sheep-wagon not more than twentyfeet away. It seemed that Joan covered thedistance in a bound, snatched one of theguns and fired. Her own horse stoodbetween her and the wild range woman,which perhaps accounted for her miss.

Mackenzie was holding her wrist beforeshe could shoot again.

Swan let out another roar of heartlesslaughter, and together with his womangalloped down the hill. Ahead of them thesheep were assembled, packed close intheir huddling way of seeking comfort andcourage in numbers, just beginning tocompose themselves for the night. Straightinto the flock Swan Carlson and hiswoman rode, trampling such as could notrise and leap aside, crushing such lambsas were not nimble enough or wise enoughto run.

“I’ll kill her, I’ll kill her!” said Joan.

She panted, half crying, struggling to freeher arm that she might fire again.

“All right, let ’em have it!” Mackenziesaid, seeing the havoc among the sheep.

Swan and his woman rode like awhirlwind through the flock, the dogs afterthem with sharp cries, the frightenedbleating of the lambs, the beating of twothousand hoofs, adding to the confusion ofwhat had been a peaceful pastoral scenebut a few minutes before. Joan cut loose atthe disturbers of this peace, emptying therevolver quickly, but without effect.

Half way through the herd Swan leaneddown and caught a lamb by the leg, swungit around his head as lightly as a manwould wave his hat, and rode on with it insavage triumph. Mackenzie snatched therifle from the wagon. His shot came soclose to Swan that he dropped the lamb.

The woman fell behind Swan, interposingherself as a shield, and in this formationthey rode on, sweeping down the narrowthread of green valley, galloping wildlyaway into the sanctuary of the hills.

Mackenzie stood, gun half lifted, andwatched them go without another shot,afraid to risk it lest he hit the woman. Heturned to Joan, who stood by, white withanger, the empty revolver in her hand.

“Are you hurt, Joan?” he asked, in foolishweakness, knowing very well that shewas.

“No, she didn’t hurt me––but I’ll kill herfor it!” said Joan.

She was trembling; her face wasbloodless in the cold anger that shook her.

There was a red welt on her neck, purple-marked on its ridge where the rawhidehad almost cut her tender skin.

“Swan Carlson has pulled his womandown to his savage level at last,”Mackenzie said.

“She’s worse than he is; she’s a rangewolf!”

“I believe she is. But it always happensthat way when a person gets to going.”

“With those two and the Hall boys you’llnot have a ghost of a chance to hold thisrange, John. You’d better let me help youbegin working the sheep over toward mycamp tonight.”

“No, I’m going to stay here.”

“Swan and that woman just rode throughhere to get the lay of your camp. Morethan likely they’ll come over and burn youout tonight––pour coal oil on the wagonand set it afire.”

“Let ’em; I’ll not be in it.”

“They’ll worry you night and day, killyour sheep, maybe kill you, if you don’tcome away. It isn’t worth it; dad was rightabout it. For the sake of peace, let themhave it, John.”

Mackenzie stood in silence, looking theway Swan and his woman had gone, thegun held as if ready to lift and fire at theshowing of a hat-crown over the next hill.He seemed to be considering the situation.Joan studied his face with eagerhopefulness, bending forward a bit to see

better in the failing light.

“They’ve got to be shown that a masterhas come to the sheep country,” he said, inlow voice, as if to himself. “I’ll stay andprove it to all of them at once.”

Joan knew there was no use to argue orappeal. She dropped the matter there, andMackenzie put the gun away.

“I’m sorry I haven’t anything to put on it,”he said, looking at the red welt on herneck.

“I’m sorry I missed her,” said Joan.

“It isn’t so much the sting of a blow, Iknow,” he comforted, “as the hurt of theinsult. Never mind it, Joan; she’s avicious, wild woman, jealous becauseSwam took notice of you.”

“It was a great compliment!”

“I wish I had some balm for it that wouldcure it in a second, and take away thememory 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,” hechided, and reached and laid his handconsolingly upon the burning mark.

Joan caught her breath as if he had touchedher skin with ice. He withdrew his handquickly, blaming himself for the rudenessof his rough hand.

“You didn’t hurt me, John,” she said, hereyes downcast, the color of warm bloodplaying over her face.

“I might have,” he blamed himself, in suchseriousness as if it were the gravest matterhe had risked, and not the mere touching ofa blood-red welt upon a simple maiden’sneck.

“I’ll be over early in the morning to see ifyou’re all right,” she told him as sheturned again to her horse.

“If you can come, even to show yourselfon the hill,” said he.

“Show myself? Why, a person would thinkyou were worrying about me.”

“I am, Joan. I wish you would give upherding sheep, let the share and theprospect and all of it go, and have yourfather put a herder in to run that band foryou.”

“They’ll not hurt me; as mean as they arethey’ll not fight a woman. Anyway, I’mnot over the deadline.”

“There’s something prowling this rangethat doesn’t respect lines, Joan.”

“You mean the grizzly?”

“Yes, the grizzly that rides a horse.”

“Dad Frazer thinks you were mistaken onthat, John.”

“I know. Dad Frazer thinks I’m a betterschoolteacher than I’ll ever be asheepman, I guess. But I’ve met bearsenough that I don’t have to imagine them.Keep your gun close by you tonight, andevery night.”

“I will,” she promised, moved by the

earnestness of his appeal.

Dusk was thickening into darkness overthe sheeplands; the dogs were driving thestraggling sheep back to the bedding-ground, where many of them already lay incontentment, quickly over the flurry ofSwan Carlson’s passing. Joan stood at herstirrup, her face lifted to the heavens, andit was white as an evening primrose underthe shadow of her hat. She lingered as ifthere remained something to say or besaid, something to give or to take, beforeleaving her friend and teacher alone toface the dangers of the night. Perhaps shethought of Rachel, and the kiss herkinsman gave her when he rolled the stonefrom the well’s mouth, and lifted up hisvoice and wept.

Mackenzie stood a little apart, thinking hisown swift-running thoughts, quickeningunder the leap of his own eager blood. Butno matter for Jacob’s precedent,Mackenzie had no excuse of even distantrelationship to offer for such familiarity.The desire was urging, but the justificationwas not at hand. So Joan rode awayunkissed, and perhaps wondering why.

CHAPTER XI

HECTOR HALL SETS A BEACON

Mackenzie sat a long time on his hill thatnight, his ear turned to the wind, smokinghis pipe and thinking the situation overwhile listening for the first sound ofcommotion among the sheep. He hadpledged himself to Tim and Joan that hewould not quit the sheep country withoutproving that he had in him the mettle of aflockmaster. Hector Hall had been givento understand the same 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 cost far beyondthe profit. It came that way to a boaster ofhis intentions sometimes, especially sowhen a man spoke too quickly andassumed too much. Here he was standingface to a fight that did not appear topromise much more glory in the winningthan in the running away.

There had been peace in that part of thesheep country a long time; Mackenzie hadcome to Jasper, even, long after the feudsbetween the flockmasters and cattlemenhad worn themselves out save for anoutbreak of little consequence in the farplaces now and then. But the peace of thisplace had been a coward’s peace, paid for

in money and humiliation. A thing like thatwas not to be expected of Tim Sullivan,although from a business reasoning hedoubtless was right about it.

It was Mackenzie’s work now to clean upthe camp of the Hall brothers, along withSwan Carlson, and put an end to theirbullying and edging over on TimSullivan’s range, or take up his pack andtrudge out of the sheep country as he hadcome. By staying there and fighting forTim Sullivan’s interests he might arrive intime at a dusty consequence, his fame,measured in thousands of sheep, reachingeven to Jasper and Cheyenne, and perhapsto the stock-yards commission offices inOmaha and Chicago.

“John Mackenzie, worth twenty thousand,

or fifty thousand sheep.”

That would be the way they would knowhim; that would be the measure of hisfame. By what sacrifice, through whatadventure, how much striving and hardliving he might come to the fame of twentythousand sheep, no man would know orcare. There in the dusty silences of thatgray-green land he would bury the manand the soul that reached upward in himwith pleasant ambitions, to become acreature over sheep. Just a step higherthan the sheep themselves, wind-buffeted,cold-cursed, seared and blistered andhardened like a callous through which theurging call of a man’s duty among mencould pierce no more.

But it had its compensations, on the other

hand. There must be a vast satisfaction inlooking back over the small triumphs wonagainst tremendous forces, the successfulcontest with wild winter storm, ravagingdisease, night-prowling beasts. Naturewas the big force arrayed against aflockmaster, and it was unkind andmenacing seven months out of the year.That must be the secret of a flockmaster’ssatisfaction with himself and his lot,Mackenzie thought; he could count himselfa fit companion for the old gods, if heknew anything about them, after hisvictory over every wild force that couldbe bent against him among thoseunsheltered hills.

The Hall brothers were a small pest to bestamped out and forgotten in the prosperity

of multiplying flocks. As for SwanCarlson, poor savage, there might be someway of reaching him without furtherviolence between them. Wild andunfeeling as he seemed, there must be asense of justice in him, reading him by hisstern, immobile face.

As he sat and weighed the argument forand against the sheep business, the callingof flockmaster began to take on the colorof romantic attraction which had not beenapparent to him before. In his way, everyflockmaster was a hero, inflexible againstthe unreckoned forces which rosecontinually to discourage him. This wastrue, as he long had realized, of a manwho plants in the soil, risking the largepart of his capital of labor year by year.

But the sheepman’s risks were greater, hiscourage immensely superior, to that of thetiller of the soil. One storm might take hisflock down to the last head, leaving himnothing to start on again but his courageand his hope.

It appeared to Mackenzie to be the callingof a proper man. A flockmaster need notbe a slave to the range, as most of themwere. He might sit in his office, as a fewof them did, and do the thing like agentleman. There were possibilities ofdignity in it heretofore overlooked; Joanwould think better of it if she could see itdone that way. Surely, it was a businessthat called for a fight to build and a fightto hold, but it was the calling of a properman.

Mackenzie was immensely cheered by hisreasoning the sheep business into theromantic and heroic class. Here wereallurements of which he had not dreamed,to be equaled only by the calling of thesea, and not by any other pursuit on land atall. A man who appreciated the subtleshadings of life could draw a great deal ofenjoyment and self-pride out of thebusiness of flockmaster. It was one of themost ancient pursuits of man. Abrahamwas a flockmaster; maybe Adam.

But for all of the new comfort he hadfound in the calling he had adopted,Mackenzie was plagued by a restless,broken sleep when he composed himselfamong the hillside shrubs above the sheep.A vague sense of something impending

held him from rest. It was present over hissenses like a veil of drifting smokethrough his shallow sleep. Twice hemoved his bed, with the caution of somehaunted beast; many times he started in hissleep, clutching like a falling man, to situp alert and instantly awake.

There was something in the very tensionof the night-silence that warned him to beon the watch. It was not until long aftermidnight that he relaxed his straining,uneasy vigil, and stretched himself tounvexed sleep. He could steal an hour ortwo from the sheep in the early morning,he told himself, as he felt the sweetrestfulness of slumber sweeping over him;the helpless creatures would remain on thebedding-ground long after sunrise if he did

not wake, waiting for him to come and setthem about the great business of theirlives. They hadn’t sense enough to rangeout and feed themselves without thedirection of man’s guiding hand.

Mackenzie had dipped but a little way intohis refreshing rest when the alarmedbarking of his dogs woke him with suchsudden wrench that it ached. He sat up,senses drenched in sleep for a strugglingmoment, groping for his rifle. The dogswent charging up the slope toward thewagon, the canvas top of which he couldsee indistinctly on the hillside through thedark.

As Mackenzie came to his feet, fullyawake and on edge, the dogs mouthedtheir cries as if they closed in on the

disturber of the night at close quarters.Mackenzie heard blows, a yelp from adisabled dog, and retreat toward him ofthose that remained unhurt. He fired ashot, aiming high, running toward thewagon.

Again the dogs charged, two of them, only,out of the three, and again there was thesound of thick, rapid blows. One dogcame back to its master, pressing againsthis legs for courage. Mackenzie shouted,hoping to draw the intruder into revealinghimself, not wanting the blood of even arascal such as the night-prowler on hishands through a chance shot into the dark.There was no answer, no sound from thedeep blackness that pressed like troubledwaters close to the ground.

The dog clung near to Mackenzie’s side,his growling deep in his throat. Mackenziecould feel the beast tremble as it pressedagainst him, and bent to caress it and giveit confidence. At his reassuring touch thebeast bounded forward to the chargeagain, only to come yelping back, andcontinue on down the hill toward theflock.

Mackenzie fired again, dodging quicklybehind a clump of bushes after the flash ofhis gun. As he crouched there, peering andstraining ahead into the dark, strong handslaid hold of him, and tore his rifle awayfrom him and flung him to the ground. Onecame running from the wagon, low wordspassed between the man who heldMackenzie pinned to the ground, knees

astride him, his hands doubled backagainst his chin in a grip that was likefetters. This one who arrived in hastegroped around until he found Mackenzie’srifle.

“Let him up,” he said.

Mackenzie stood, his captor twisting hisarms behind him with such silent ease thatit was ominous of what might be expectedshould the sheepherder set up a struggle tobreak free.

“Bud, I’ve come over after my guns,” saidHector Hall, speaking close toMackenzie’s ear.

“They’re up at the wagon,” Mackenzietold him, with rather an injured air. “Youdidn’t need to make all this trouble about

it; I was keeping them for you.”

“Go on up and get ’em,” Hall commanded,prodding Mackenzie in the ribs with thebarrel of his own gun.

The one who held Mackenzie said nothing,but walked behind him, rather shoved himahead, hands twisted in painful rigiditybehind his back, pushing him along as ifhis weight amounted to no more than achild’s. At the wagon Hall fell in besideMackenzie, the barrel of a gun again at hisside.

“Let him go,” he said. And to Mackenzie:“Don’t try to throw any tricks on me, bud,but waltz around and get me them guns.”

“They’re hanging on the end of thecoupling-pole; get them yourself,”

Mackenzie returned, resentful of thistreatment, humiliated to such depths bythis disgrace that had overtaken him thathe cared little for the moment whether heshould live or die.

Hall spoke a low, mumbled, unintelligibleword to the one who stood behindMackenzie, and another gun pressedcoldly against the back of the apprenticesheepman’s neck. Hall went to the end ofthe wagon, found his pistols, struck amatch to inspect them. In the light of theexpiring match at his feet Mackenzie couldsee the ex-cattleman buckling on the guns.

“Bud, you’ve been actin’ kind of rasharound here,” Hall said, in insolentsatisfaction with the turn of events. “Youhad your lucky day with me, like you had

with Swan Carlson, but I gave you asneak’s chance to leave the country whilethe goin’ was good. If you ever leave itnow the wind’ll blow you out. Back himup to that wagon wheel!”

Mackenzie was at the end of his tractableyielding to commands, seeing dimly whatlay before him. He lashed out in fury at theman who pressed the weapon to his neck,twisting round in a sweep of passion thatmade the night seem to burst in a rain offire, careless of what immediate danger heran. The fellow fired as Mackenzie swunground, the flash of the flame hot on hisneck.

“Don’t shoot him, you fool!” Hector Hallinterposed, his voice a growl between histeeth.

Mackenzie’s quick blows seemed to fallimpotently on the body of the man whonow grappled with him, face to face,Hector Hall throwing himself into thetangle from the rear. Mackenzie, seeinghis assault shaping for a speedy end in hisown defeat, now attempted to break awayand seek shelter in the dark among thebushes. He wrenched free for a moment,ducked, ran, only to come down in a fewyards with Hector Hall on his back like acatamount.

Fighting every inch of the way, Mackenziewas dragged back to the wagon, where hiscaptors backed him against one of the hindwheels and bound him, his armsoutstretched across the spokes in themanner of a man crucified.

They had used Mackenzie illy in that fightto get him back to the wagon; his face wasbleeding, a blow in the mouth had puffedhis lips. His hat was gone, his shirt tornopen on his bosom, but a wild ragethrobbed in him which lifted him abovethe thought of consequences as he strainedat the ropes which held his arms.

They left his feet free, as if to mock himwith half liberty in the ordeal they had setfor him to face. One mounted the frontwagon wheel near Mackenzie, and thelight of slow-coming dawn on the skybeyond him showed his hand uplifted as ifhe sprinkled something over the wagonsheet. The smell of kerosene spreadthrough the still air; a match crackled onthe wagon tire. A flash, a sudden springing

of flame, a roar, and the canvas wasenveloped in fire.

Mackenzie leaned against his bonds,straining away from the sudden heat, thefast-running fire eating the canvas from thebows, the bunk within, and all thefurnishings and supplies, on fire. Thereseemed to be no wind, a mercifulcircumstance, for a whip of the high-striving flames would have wrapped him,stifling out his life in a moment.

Hall and the other man, who had strivenwith Mackenzie in such powerful silence,had drawn away from the fire beyond hissight to enjoy the thing they had done.Mackenzie, turning his fearful gaze overhis shoulder, calculated his life inseconds. The fire was at his back, his hair

was crinkling in the heat of it, a littlemoving breath of wind to fill the suddenvacuum drew a tongue of blaze with sharpthreat against his cheek.

In a moment the oil-drenched canvaswould be gone, the flaming contents of thewagon, the woodwork of box and runninggears left to burn more slowly, and hisflesh and bones must mingle ashes withthe ashes, to be blown on the wind, asHector Hall had so grimly prophesied.What a pitiful, poor, useless ending of allhis calculations and plans!

A shot at the top of the hill behind thewagon, a rush of galloping hoofs; anothershot, and another. Below him Hall and hiscomrade rode away, floundering in hastethrough the sleeping flock, the one poor

dog left out of Mackenzie’s three tearingafter them, venting his impotent defiancein sharp yelps of the chase.

Joan. Mackenzie knew it was Joan beforeshe came riding into the firelight, throwingherself from the horse before it stopped.Through the pain of his despair––abovethe rebellious resentment of the thing thatfate had played upon him this bitter graymorni ng; above the anguish of hishopeless moment, the poignant striving ofhis tortured soul to meet the end withresolution and calm defiance worthy aman––he had expected Joan.

Why, based on what reason, he could nothave told, then nor in the years that cameafterward. But always the thought of Joancoming to him like the wings of light out

of the east.

And so Joan had come, as he strained onhis bound arms to draw his face a fewinches farther from the fire, as he stifled inthe smoke and heavy gases of the burningoil; Joan had come, and her hand was coolon his forehead, her voice was tender inhis ear, and she was leading him into theblessed free air, the east widening in a barof light like a waking eye.

Joan was panting, the knife that had cut hisbonds still open in her hand. They stoodface to face, a little space between them,her great eyes pouring their terrifiedsympathy into his soul. Neither spoke, adaze over them, a numbness on theirtongues, the dull shock of death’s closepassing bewildering and deep.

Mackenzie breathed deeply, his brainclearing out of its racing whirl, andbecame conscious of Joan’s hand graspinghis. Behind them the ammunition in theburning wagon began to explode, andJoan, shuddering as with cold, coveredher white face with her hands and sobbedaloud.

Mackenzie touched her shoulder.

“Joan! O Joan, Joan!” he said.

Joan, shivering, her shoulders lifted as ifto fend against a winter blast, only criedthe harder into her hands. He stood withhand touching her shoulder lightly, thequiver of her body shaking him to theheart. But no matter how inviting theopening, a man could not speak what rosein his heart to say, standing as he stood, a

debtor in such measure. To say what hewould have said to Joan, he must standclear and towering in manliness, no taintof humiliation on his soul.

Mackenzie groaned in spirit, and hiswords were a groan, as he said again:

“Joan! O Joan, Joan!”

“I knew they’d come tonight––I couldn’tsleep.”

“Thank God for your wakefulness!” saidhe.

She was passing out of the reefs of terror,calming as a wind falls at sunset.Mackenzie pressed her arm, drawing heraway a little.

“That ammunition––we’d better–––”

“Yes,” said Joan, and went with him alittle farther down the slope.

Mackenzie put his hand to his face wherethe flames had licked it, and to the back ofhis head where his scorched hair brokecrisply under his palm. Joan looked athim, the aging stamp of waking and worryin her face, exclaiming pityingly when shesaw his hurts.

“It served me right; I stumbled into theirhands like a blind kitten!” he said, notsparing himself of scorn.

“It’s a cattleman’s trick; many an olderhand than you has gone that way,” shesaid.

“But if I’d have waked and watched likeyou, Joan, they wouldn’t have got me. I

started to watch, but I didn’t keep it uplike you. When I should have been awake,I was sleeping like a sluggard.”

“The cowards!” said Joan.

“I let one of them sneak up behind me,after they’d clubbed two of the dogs todeath, and grab me and get my gun! GreatGod! I deserve to be burned!”

“Hush!” she chided, fearfully. “Hush!”

“One of them was Hector Hall––he cameafter his guns. If I’d been a man, theshadow of a man, I’d made him swallowthem the day I took––the time he left themhere.”

“Matt was with him,” said Joan. “Youcouldn’t do anything; no man could doanything, against Matt Hall.”

“They handled me like a baby,” said he,bitterly, “and I, and I, wanting to be asheepman! No wonder they think I’m asoft and simple fool up here, that goes onthe 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 shespoke, riding near the wreckage of theburning wagon, where he halted a moment,the strong light of the fire on his face:Swan Carlson, hatless, his hair streaming,his great mustache pendant beside hisstony mouth. He came on toward them atonce. Joan laid her hand on her revolver.

“You got a fire here,” said Swan, stoppingnear them, leaning curiously toward themas if he peered at them through smoke.

“Yes,” Mackenzie returned.

“I seen it from over there,” said Swan. “Icome over to see if you needed any help.”

“Thank you, not now. It’s gone; nothingcan be done.”

“I smelt coal oil,” said Swan, throwingback his head, sniffing the air like a buck.“Who done it?”

“Some of your neighbors,” saidMackenzie.

“I knowed they would,” Swan nodded.“Them fellers don’t fight like me and you,they don’t stand up like a man. When Iseen you take that feller by the leg that dayand upset him off of his horse and grab hisguns off of him, I knowed he’d burn youout.”

Joan, forgetting her fear and dislike ofSwan Carlson in her interest of what herevealed, drew a little nearer to him.

“Were you around here that day, Swan?”she asked.

“Yes, I saw him upset that feller, littlebird,” Swan said, leaning again from hissaddle, his long neck stretched to peer intoher face. “He’s a good man, but he ain’t asgood a man as me.”

Swan was barefooted, just as he hadleaped from his bunk in the sheep-wagonto ride to the fire. There was a wild, highpride in his cold, handsome face as he satup in the saddle as if to show Joan hismighty bulk, and he stretched out his longarms like an eagle on its crag flexing itspinions in the morning sun.

“Did he––did Hector Hall sling a gun onMr. Mackenzie that time?” she asked,pressing forward eagerly.

“Never mind, Joan––let that go,” saidMackenzie, putting his arm before her tostay her, speaking hastily, as if to warn herback from a danger.

“He didn’t have time to sling a gun onhim,” said Swan, great satisfaction in hisvoice as he recalled the scene. “Your manhe’s like a cat when he jumps for a feller,but he ain’t got the muscle in his back likeme.”

“There’s nobody in this country like you,Swan,” said Joan, pleased with him,friendly toward him, for his praise of theone he boldly called her man.

“No, I can roll ’em all,” Swan said, asgravely as if he would be hung on thetestimony. “You ought to have me for yourman; then you’d have somebody no felleron this range would burn out.”

“You’ve got a wife, Swan,” Joan said,with gentle reproof, but putting theproposal from her as if she considered it ajest.

“I’m tired of that one,” Swan confessed,frankly. Then to Mackenzie: “I’ll fight youfor her.” He swung half way out of thesaddle, as if to come to the ground andstart the contest on the moment, hung there,looking Mackenzie in the face, the light ofmorning revealing the marks of his recentbattle. “Not now, you’ve had a fightalready,” said Swan, settling back into the

saddle. “But when you brace up, then I’llfight you for her. What?”

“Any time,” Mackenzie told him, speakingeasily, as if humoring the whim of someirresponsible person.

With a sudden start of his horse Swanrode close to Joan, Mackenzie throwinghimself between them, catching the bridle,hurling the animal back. Swan did not takenotice of the interference, only leaned farover, stretching his long neck, his greatmustaches like the tusks of an old walrus,and strained a long look into Joan’s face.Then he whirled his horse and gallopedaway, not turning a glance behind.

Joan watched him go, saying nothing for alittle while. Then:

“I think he’s joking,” she said.

“I suppose he is,” Mackenzie agreed,although he had many doubts.

They turned to look at the wagon again,the popping of ammunition having ceased.The woodwork was all on fire; soon itwould be reduced to bolts and tires.Joan’s spirits seemed to have risen withthe broadening of day, in spite of SwanCarlson’s visit and his bold jest, if jest hemeant it to be. She laughed as she lookedat the sheep, huddled below them inattitude of helpless fright.

“Poor little fools!” she said. “Well, I mustgo back to Charley. Don’t tell dad I wasover here, please, John. He wouldn’t likeit if he knew I’d butted in this way––he’sscared to death of the Halls.”

“I don’t see how I’m to keep him fromknowing it,” Mackenzie said, “and I don’tsee why he shouldn’t know. He’d havebeen out a cheap herder if it hadn’t beenfor you.”

“No, you mustn’t tell him, you mustn’t letanybody know I was here, John,” she said,lifting her eyes to his in an appeal farstronger than words. “It wouldn’t do fordad––for anybody––to know I was here.You don’t need to say anything about themtying––doing––that.”Joan shuddered again in that chilling,horrified way, turning from him to hidewhat he believed he had read in her wordsand face before.

It was not because she feared to have herfather know she had come riding to his

rescue in the last hours of her troublednight; not because she feared his censureor his anger, or wanted to conceal herdeed for reasons of modesty from anyone.Only to spare him the humiliation ofhaving his failure known, Mackenzieunderstood. That was her purpose, and hersole purpose, in seeking his pledge tosecrecy.

It would hurt him to have it go abroad thathe had allowed them to sneak into hiscamp, seize him, disarm him, bind him,and set the fire that was to make ashes ofhim for the winds to blow away. It woulddo for him with Tim Sullivan entirely ifthat should become known, with theadditional humiliation of being saved fromthis shameful death by a woman. No

matter how immeasurable his owngratitude, no matter how wide his ownpride in her for what she had done, thesheep country never would be able to seeit with his eyes. It would be anothersmirch for him, and such a deep one as toobscure him and his chances there forever.

Joan knew it. In her generosity, herinterest for his future, she wanted her partin it to remain unknown.

“You must promise me, John,” she said.“I’ll never come to take another lessonunless you promise me.”

“I promise you, God bless you, Joan!”said he.

CHAPTER XII

ONE COMES TO SERVE

An hour after midday there came ridingover the hills Tim Sullivan and a stranger.They stopped at the ruins of the sheep-wagon, where Tim dismounted and nosedaround, then came on down the draw,where Mackenzie was ranging the sheep.

Tim was greatly exercised over the loss ofthe wagon. He pitched into Mackenzieabout it as soon as he came withinspeaking distance.

“How did you do it––kick over thelantern?” he inquired, his face cloudy with

ill-held wrath.

Mackenzie explained, gruffly and in fewwords, how the wagon was fired, sparinghis own perilous adventure and the partthat Joan had borne in it. This slowed Timdown, and set him craning his neck overthe country to see if any further threat ofviolence impended on the horizon.

“Them Hall boys ought to be men enoughnot to do me a trick like that after the wayI’ve give in to them on this side of therange,” he said. Then to Mackenzie,sharply: “It wouldn’t ’a’ happened if youhadn’t took Hector’s guns away from himthat time. A sheepman’s got no right to befightin’ around on the range. If he wants tobrawl and scrap, let him do it when hegoes to town, the way the cowboys used

to.”

“Maybe you’re right; I’m beginning tothink you are,” Mackenzie returned.

“Right? Of course I’m right. A sheepman’sgot to set his head to business, andwatchin’ the corners to prevent losses likethis that eats up the profit, and not goaround with his sleeves rolled up and hisjaw slewed, lookin’ for a fight. And if hestarts one he’s got to have the backboneand the gizzard to hold up his end of it,and not let ’em put a thing like this over onhim. Why wasn’t you in the wagon lastnight watchin’ it?”

“Because I’ve been expecting them to burnit.”

“Sure you’ve been expectin’ ’em to burn

you out, and you hid in the brush with yourtail between your legs like a kicked pupand let ’em set my new wagon afire. Howdid you git your face bunged up that way?”

“I fell down,” Mackenzie said, with asarcasm meant only for himself, feelingthat he had described his handling of thepast situation in a word.

“Runnin’ off, I reckon. Well, I tell you,John, it won’t do, that kind of businesswon’t do. Them Hall boys are mightyrough fellers, too rough for a boy like youthat’s been runnin’ with school childrenall his life. You got some kind of a luckyhitch on Hector when you stripped thatbelt and guns off of him––I don’t knowhow you done it; it’s a miracle he didn’tnail you down with lead––but that kind of

luck won’t play into a man’s hands onetime in a thousand. You never ought ’a’started anything with them fellers unlessyou had the weight in your hind-quartersto keep it goin’.”

“You’re right,” said Mackenzie,swallowing the rebuke like a bitter pill.

“Right? You make me tired standin’ thereand takin’ it like a sick cat! If you was halfthe man I took you to be when you struckthis range you’d resent a callin’ down likeI’m givin’ you. But you don’t resent it, youtake it, like you sneaked and let themfellers burn that wagon and them suppliesof mine. If you was expectin’ ’em to turnthat kind of a trick you ought ’a’ been rightthere in that wagon, watchin’ it––there’swhere you had a right to be.”

“I suppose there’s where I’d been if I hadyour nerve, Sullivan,” Mackenzie said, hisslow anger taking place of the humiliationthat had bent him down all morning like ashameful load. “Everybody on this rangeknows you’re a fighting man––you’vefought the wind gettin’ away from this sideof the range every time you saw smoke,you’ve got a reputation for standing out foryour rights like a man with a gizzard inhim as big as a sack of bran! Sure, I knowall about the way you’ve backed out ofhere and let Carlson and the Halls bluffyou out of the land you pay rent on, rightalong. If I had your nerve–––”

Tim’s face flamed as if he had risen fromturning batter-cakes over a fire. He madea smoothing, adjusting, pacificating

gesture with his hands, looking withsomething between deep concern andshame over his shoulder at the man whoaccompanied him, and who sat off a fewfeet in his saddle, a grin over his face.

“Now, John, I don’t mean for you to take itthat I’m throwin’ any slur over yourcourage for the way things has turnedout––I don’t want you to take it that way atall, lad,” said Tim.

“I’m not a fighting man”––Mackenzie wasgetting hotter as he went on––“everybodyin here knows that by now, I guess. Youguessed wrong, Sullivan, when you tookme for one and put me over here to holdthis range for you that this crowd’s beenbacking you off of a little farther eachspring. You’re the brave spirit that’s

needed here––if somebody could tie youand hold you to face the men that haverobbed you of the best range you’ve got. Iput down my hand; I get out of the way foryou when it comes to the grit to put up afight.”

“Oh, don’t take it to heart what I’ve beensayin’, lad. A man’s hot under the collarwhen he sees a dirty trick like that turnedon him, but it passes off like sweat, John.Let it go, boy, let it pass.”

“You sent me in here expecting me tofight, and when I don’t always come outon top you rib me like the devil’s own forit. You expected me to fight to hold thisgrass, but you didn’t expect me to loseanything at all. Well, I’ll hold the rangefor you, Sullivan; you don’t need to lose

any sleep over that. But if I’m willing torisk my skin to do it, by thunder, you oughtto be game enough to stand the loss of awagon without a holler that can be heardto Four Corners!”

“You’re doin’ fine holdin’ my range that Ipay solid money to Uncle Sam for, you’redoin’ elegant fine, lad. I was hasty, mytongue got out from under the bit, boy. Letit pass; don’t you go holdin’ it against anold feller like me that’s got the worry offorty-odd thousand sheep on his mind dayand night.”

“It’s easy enough to say, but it don’t letyou out. You’ve got no call to come hereand wade into me without knowinganything about the circumstances.”

“Right you are, John, sound and right. I

was hasty, I was too hot. You’ve done finehere, you’re the first man that’s ever stoodup to them fellers and held ’em off mygrass. You’ve done things up like a man,John. I give it to you––like a man.”

“Thanks,” said Mackenzie, in dry scorn.

“I ain’t got no kick to make over the lossof my wagon––it’s been many a day sinceI had one burnt up on me that way. Pass itup, pass up anything I’ve said about it,John. That’s the lad.”

So John passed it up, and unbent to meetthe young man who rode with Tim, whomthe sheepman presented as Earl Reid,from Omaha, son of Malcolm Reid, an oldrange partner and friend. The young manhad come out to learn the sheep business;Tim had brought him over for Mackenzie

to break in. Dad Frazer was coming alongwith three thousand sheep, due to arrive inabout a week. When he got there, theapprentice would split his time betweenthem.

Mackenzie received the apprentice ascordially as he could, but it was not asardent a welcome as the young man mayhave expected, owing to the gloom ofresentment into which Sullivan’s outbreakhad thrown this unlucky herder on thefrontier of the range.

Reid was rather a sophisticated lookingyouth of twenty-two or twenty-three, citybroke, city marked. There was a poolroompallor about this thin face, a poolroomstoop to his thin shoulders, that Mackenziedid not like. But he was frank and

ingenuous in his manner, with a readysmile that redeemed his homely face, anda pair of blue eyes that seemed young intheir innocence compared to the world-knowledge that his face betrayed.

“Take the horses down there to the crickand water ’em,” Tim directed his newherder, “and then you’ll ride back with meas far as Joan’s camp and fetch over somegrub to hold you two fellers till the wagoncomes. Joan, she’ll know what to giveyou, and I guess you can find your wayback here?”

“Surest thing you know,” said Earl, witheasy confidence, riding off to water thehorses.

“That kid’s no stranger to the range,”Mackenzie said, more to himself than to

Tim, as he watched him ride off.

“No, he used to be around with thecowboys on Malcolm’s ranch when hewas in the cattle business. He can handle ahorse as good as you or me. Malcolm wasthe man that set me up in the sheepbusiness; I started in with him like you’restartin’ with me, more than thirty yearsago. He was the first sheepman on thisrange, and he had to fight to hold his own,I’m here to say!”

“You’d better send the kid over intopeaceful territory,” Mackenzie suggested,crabbedly.

“No, the old man wants him to get a tasteof what he went through to make hisstart––he was tickled to the toes when heheard the way them Hall boys are rarin’

up and you standin’ ’em off of this rangeof mine. ‘Send him over there with thatman,’ he says; ‘that’s the kind of a man Iwant him to break in under.’ The old fellerwas tickled clean to his toes.”

“Is he over at the ranch?”

“No, he went back home last night. Comedown to start the kid right, and talk it overwith me. It was all a surprise to me, Ididn’t know a thing about it, but I couldn’tturn Malcolm down.” Tim winked, lookedcunning, nodded in a knowing way. “Kid’sbeen cuttin’ up throwin’ away too muchmoney; gettin’ into scrapes like a boy intown will, you know. Wild oats and a bigcrop of ’em. The old man’s staked him outwith me for three years, and he ain’t todraw one cent of pay, or have one cent to

spend, in that time. If he breaks over, it’sall off between them two. And the kid’ssole heir to nearly half a million.”

Mackenzie turned to look again at the boy,who was coming back with the horses.

“Do you think he’ll stick?” he asked.

“Yes, he promised the old man he would,and if he’s anything like Malcolm, he’lleat fire before he’ll break his word.Malcolm and me we come to terms in tenwords. The kid’s to work three years forme without pay; then I’ll marry him to myJoan.”

Mackenzie felt his blood come up hot, andsink down again, cold; felt his heart kickin one resentful surge, then fall away toweakness as if its cords had been cut. Tim

laughed, looking down the draw towardthe sheep.

“It’s something like that Jacob and Labandeal you spoke about the other day,” saidhe. “Curious how things come around thatway, ain’t it? There I went ridin’ off,rakin’ up my brains to remember thatstory, and laughed when it come to me allof a sudden. Jacob skinned them willowsticks, and skinned the old man, too. But Idon’t guess Earl would turn a trick likethat on me, even if he could.”

“How about Joan? Does she agree to theterms?” Mackenzie could not forbear thequestion, even though his throat was dry,his lips cold, his voice husky at the firstword.

“She’ll jump at it,” Tim declared, warmly.

“She wants to go away from here and seethe world, and this will be her chance. Idon’t object to her leavin’, either, as longas it don’t cost me anything. You go aheadand stuff her, John; stuff her as full oflearnin’ as she’ll hold. It’ll be cheaper forme than sendin’ her off to school andfittin’ her up to be a rich man’s wife, andyou can do her just as much good––more,from what she tells me. You go rightahead and stuff her, John.”

“Huh!” said John.

“Earl, he’ll look after your sheep whileyou’re teachin’ Joan her books. Stuff her,but don’t founder her, John. If any man canfit her up to prance in high society, I’d betmy last dollar you can. You’re a kind of agentleman yourself, John.”

“Thanks,” said John, grinning a dry grin.

“Yes,” reminiscently, with greatsatisfaction, “Malcolm made theproposition to me, hit me with it so suddenit nearly took my breath. ‘Marry him toyour Joan when you make a man of him,’he says. I said maybe he wouldn’t want tohitch up with a sheepman’s daughter thatwas brought up on the range. ‘If he don’the can go to work and make his ownway––I’ll not leave him a dam’ cent!’says Malcolm. We shook hands on it; hesaid he’d put it in his will. And that’scinched so it can’t slip.”

When Tim mounted to leave he lookedround the range again with a drawing oftrouble in his face, as if he searched thepeaceful landscape for the shadow of

wings.

“I ain’t got another sheep-wagon to giveyou right now, John; I guess you’ll have tomake out with a tent till winter,” he said.

“I’d rather have it,” Mackenzie replied.

Tim leaned over, hand to one side of hismouth, speaking in low voice, yet notwhispering:

“And remember what I said about thatmatter, John. Stuff, but don’t founder.”

“Stuff,” said John, but with an inflectionthat gave the word a different meaning,quite.

CHAPTER XIII

A FIGHT ALMOST LOST

Dad Frazer was not overly friendlytoward the young man from Omaha whohad come out to learn the sheep businessunder the threat of penalties and thepromise of high rewards. He growledaround about him continually when he andMackenzie met, which was not very often,owing to their being several miles apart.Tim had stationed Dad and his big band ofsheep between Mackenzie and Joan,leaving the schoolmaster to hold thefrontier. No matter for old man Reid’s

keenness to have his son suffer some ofthe dangers which he had faced in his day,Tim seemed to be holding the youth backout of harm’s way, taking no risks onlosing a good thing for the family.

Reid had been on the range about twoweeks, but Mackenzie had not seen a greatdeal of him, owing to Tim’s plan ofkeeping him out of the disputed territory,especially at night. That the young man didnot care much for the company orinstruction of Dad Frazer was plain.Twice he had asked Mackenzie to use hisinfluence with Tim to bring about a changefrom the old man’s camp to his. InMackenzie’s silence and severity theyoung man found something that he couldnot penetrate, a story that he could not

read. Perhaps it was with a view tofinding out what school Mackenzie hadbeen seasoned in that Reid bent himself towin his friendship.

Dad Frazer came over the hills toMackenzie’s range that afternoon, tostretch his legs, he said, althoughMackenzie knew it was to stretch histongue, caring nothing for the miles thatlay between. He had left Reid in charge ofhis flock, the young man being favored byTim to the extent of allowing him a horse,the same as he did Joan.

“I’m glad he takes to you,” said Dad. “Idon’t like him; he’s got a graveyard in hiseyes.”

“I don’t think he ever pulled a gun onanybody in his life, Dad,” Mackenzie

returned, in mild amazement.

“I don’t mean that kind of a graveyard; Imean a graveyard where he buried the boyin him long before his time. He’s toosharp for his years; he’s seen too much ofthe kind of life a young feller’s better offfor to hear about from a distance andnever touch. I tell you, John, he ain’t nogood.”

“He’s an agreeable kind of a chap,anyhow; he’s got a line of talk like asaddle salesman.”

“Yes, and I never did have no use for atalkin’ man. Nothin’ to ’em; they don’tstand the gaff.”

In spite of his friendly defense of youngReid, Mackenzie felt that Dad had read

him aright. There was something of subtleknowledge, an edge of guile showingthrough his easy nature and desire toplease, that was like acid on the teeth.Reid had the faculty of making himselfagreeable, and he was an apt and willinghand, but back of this ingenuousappearance there seemed to be somethingelusive and shadowy, a thing which hetried to keep hidden by nimble maneuvers,but which would show at times for all hiscare.

Mackenzie did not dislike the youth, but hefound it impossible to warm up to him asone man might to another in a place wherehuman companionship is a luxury. WhenReid sat with a cigarette in his thin lips––it was a wide mouth, worldly hard––hazy

in abstraction and smoke, there came aglaze over the clearness of his eyes, alook of dead harshness, a cast of cunning.In such moments his true nature seemed toexpress itself unconsciously, and DadFrazer, simple as he was in many ways,was worldly man enough to penetrate thesmoke, and sound the apprenticesheepman to his soul.

Reid seemed to draw a good deal ofamusement out of his situation under TimSullivan. He was dependent on theflockmaster for his clothing and keep,even tobacco and papers for hiscigarettes. If he knew anything about thearrangement between his father andSullivan in regard to Joan, he did notmention it. That he knew it, Mackenzie

fully believed, for Tim Sullivan was notthe man to keep the reward sequestered.

Whether Reid looked toward Joan asadequate compensation for three years’exile in the sheeplands, there was notelling. Perhaps he did not think much ofher in comparison with the exotic plants ofthe atmosphere he had left; more thanlikely there was a girl in the backgroundsomewhere, around whom some of the oldman’s anxiety to save the lad revolved.Mackenzie hoped to the deepest cranny ofhis heart that it was so.

“He seems to get a good deal of humor outof working here for his board andtobacco,” Mackenzie said.

“Yes, he blatters a good deal about it,”said Dad. “‘I’ll take another biscuit on

Tim Sullivan,’ he says, and ‘here goesanother smoke on Tim.’ I don’t see wherehe’s got any call to make a joke out ofeatin’ another man’s bread.”

“Maybe he’s never eaten any man’s breadoutside of the family before, Dad.”

“I reckon he wouldn’t have to be doin’ itnow if he’d ’a’ been decent. Oh well,maybe he ain’t so bad.”

This day Dad was maneuvering around tounload the apprentice on Mackenzie forgood. He worked up to it gradually, as iffeeling his way with his good foot ahead,careful not to be too sudden and plungeinto a hole.

“I don’t like a feller around that talks somuch,” Dad complained. “When he’s

around a man ain’t got no time to think andplan and lay his projec’s for what he’s agoin’ to do. All I can do to put a word inedgeways once in a while.”

It appeared plain enough that Dad’s sorespot was this very inability to land asmany words as he thought he had a rightto. That is the complaint of any talkativeperson. If you are a good listener, with ayes and a no now and then, a talkative manwill tell your friends you are the mostinteresting conversationalist he ever met.

“I don’t mind him,” Mackenzie said,knowing very well that Dad would soonbe so hungry for somebody to unload hiswords upon that he would be talking to thesheep. “Ship him over to me when you’retired of him; I’ll work some of the wind

out of him inside of a week.”

“I’ll send him this evenin’,” said Dad,eager in his relief, brightening like anuncovered coal. “Them dogs Joan giveyou’s breakin’ in to the sound of yourvoice wonderful, ain’t they?”

“They’re getting used to me slowly.”

“Funny about dogs a woman’s beenrunnin’ sheep with. Mighty unusual they’lltake up with a man after that. I used to bemarried to a Indian woman up on the BigWind that was some hummer trainin’sheep-dogs. That woman could sell ’emfor a hundred dollars apiece as fast as shecould raise ’em and train ’em up, and themdad-splashed collies they’d purt’ near allcome 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 womanto have around a man’s camp. Where isshe now, if I’m not too curious?”

“She was a good woman, one of the bestwomen I ever had.” Dad rubbed his chin,eyes reflectively on the ground, stoodsilent a spell that was pretty long for him.“I hated like snakes to lose that woman––her name was Little Handful Of RabbitHair On A Rock. Ye-es. She was ahummer on sheep-dogs, all right. She tooka swig too many out of my jug one day andtripped over a stick and tumbled into thehog-scaldin’ tank.”

“What a miserable end!” said Mackenzie,shocked by the old man’s indifferent wayof telling it.

“Oh, it didn’t hurt her much,” said Dad.“Scalded one side of her till she peeledoff and turned white. I couldn’t stand herafter that. You know a man don’t want tobe goin’ around with no pinto woman,John.” Dad looked up with a gesture ofdepreciation, a queer look of apology inhis weather-beaten face. “She was aCrow,” he added, as if that explainedmuch that he had not told.

“Dark, huh?”

“Black; nearly as black as a nigger.”

“Little Handful, and so forth, must havethought you gave her a pretty hard deal,anyhow, Dad.”

“I never called her by her full name,” Dadreflected, passing over the moral question

that Mackenzie raised. “I shortened herdown to Rabbit. I sure wish I had a coupleof them sheep-dogs of her’n to give you inplace of them you lost. Joan’s a good littlegirl, but she can’t train a dog like Rabbit.”

“Rabbit’s still up there on the Big Windwaiting for you, is she?”

“She’ll wait a long time! I’m done withIndians. Joan comin’ over today?”

“Tomorrow.”

“I don’t guess you’ll have her to botherwith much longer––her and that Reid boythey’ll be hitchin’ up one of these daysfrom all the signs. He skirmishes off overthat way nearly every day. Looks to melike Tim laid it out that way, givin’ him ahorse to ride and leavin’ me and you to

hoof it. It’d suit Tim, all right; I’ve heardold Reid’s a millionaire.”

“I guess it would,” Mackenzie said, tryingto keep his voice from sounding as cold ashis heart felt that moment.

“Yes, I think they’ll hitch. Well, I’d like tosee Joan land a better man than him. Idon’t like a man that can draw a blinderover his eyes like a frog.”

Mackenzie smiled at the aptness of Dad’scomparison. It was, indeed, as if Reidinterposed a film like a frog when heplunged from one element into another, soto speak; when he left the sheeplands inhis thoughts and went back to the hauntsand 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 ’emslim, and when he’s old he wants ’em fat.It’d be a calamity if a man was to marry askinny girl like Joan and she was to stayskinny all his life.”

“I don’t think she’s exactly skinny, Dad.”

“No, I don’t reckon you could count herribs. But you put fifty pounds more on thatgirl and see how she’d look!”

“I can’t imagine it,” said Mackenzie, notfriendly to the notion at all.

As Dad went back to unburden himself ofhis unwelcome companion, Mackenziecould not suppress the thought that a goodmany unworthy notions hatched beneaththat dignified white hair. But surely Dad

might be excused by a more stringentmoralist than the schoolmaster forabandoning poor Rabbit after hercomplexion had suffered in the hog-scalding vat.

Toward sundown Earl Reid came ridingover, his winning smile as easy on hisface as he was in the saddle. The dayswere doing him good, all around,toughening his face, taking the poolroompastiness out of it, putting a bracer in hisback. Mackenzie noted the improvementas readily as it could be seen in somequick-growing plant.

Mackenzie was living a very primitiveand satisfactory life under a few yards oftent canvas since the loss of his wagon.He stretched it over such bushes as came

handy, storing his food beneath it when heslept, save on such nights as threatenedshowers. Reid applauded thisarrangement. He was tired of DadFrazer’s wagon, and the greasy bunk in it.

“I’ve been wild to stretch out in a blanketwith my feet to a little fire,” he said, witha flash of the eagerness belonging to theboyhood buried away too soon, as Dadhad remarked. “Dad wouldn’t let me doit––fussed at me three days because Isneaked out on him one night and laidunder the wagon.”

“Dad didn’t want a skunk to bite you, Iguess. He felt a heavy responsibility onyour account.”

“Old snoozer!” said Reid.

Reid was uncommonly handy as a camp-cook, far better in that respect thanMackenzie, who gladly turned the kitchenduties over to him and let him have hisway. After supper they sat talking, thelusty moon lifting a wondering face overthe hills in genial placidity as if sure, afterall its ages, of giving the world a surpriseat last.

“Joan told me to bring you word she’d beover in the morning instead of tomorrowafternoon,” said Reid.

“Thanks.”

Reid smoked in reflective silence, his thinface clear in the moonlight.

“Some girl,” said he. “I don’t see why shewants to go to all this trouble to get a little

education. That stuff’s all bunk. I wish Ihad the coin in my jeans right now the oldman spent on me, pourin’ stuff into me thatwent right on through like smoke through ahandkerchief.”

“I don’t think it would be that way withJoan,” Mackenzie said, hoping Reidwould drop the discussion there, and notgo into the arrangement for the future,which was a matter altogether detestablein the schoolmaster’s thoughts.

Reid did not pursue his speculations onJoan, whether through delicacy orindifference Mackenzie could not tell. Hebranched off into talk of other things,through which the craving for the life hehad left came out in strong expressions ofdissatisfaction with the range. He

complained against the penance his fatherhad set, looking ahead with consternationto the three years he must spend in thosesolitudes.

“But I’m goin’ to stick,” he said, anunmistakable determination in his tone.“I’ll show him they’re making as goodmen now as they did when he was a kid.”He laughed, a raucous, short laugh, an oldman’s laugh, which choked in a cigarettecough and made a mockery of mirth. “I’lltoughen up out here and have better windfor the big finish when I sit in on the oldman’s money.”

No, Joan was not cast for any importantpart in young Reid’s future drama,Mackenzie understood. As if his thoughtshad penetrated to the young man’s heart,

making fatuous any further attempt atconcealment of his true sentiments, Reidspoke.

“They’ve sewed me up in a sack withJoan––I guess you know about it?”

“Tim was telling me.”

“A guy could do worse.”

With this comforting reflection Reidstretched himself on his blanket and wentto sleep. Mackenzie was not slow infollowing his example, for it had been ahard day with the sheep, with much legwork on account of the new dogs showinga wolfish shyness of their new mastermost exasperating at times. Mackenzie’slast thought was that Reid would take agreat deal of labor off his legs by using the

horse in attending the sheep.

A scream woke Mackenzie. He heaved upout of his sleep with confusion cloudinghis senses for the moment, the thought thathe was on water, and the cry was that ofone who drowned, persistent above hisstruggling reason. It was a choking cry, theutterance of a desperate soul who sees lifefleeing while he lifts his voice in the lastappeal. And between him and hiscompanion Mackenzie saw the bulk of agiant-shouldered man, who bent with armoutstretched toward him, whose handcame in contact with his throat as he roseupright with the stare of confusion in hiseyes.

Mackenzie broke through this film of hisnumbing sleep, reaching for the rifle that

he had laid near his hand. It was gone, andacross the two yards intervening he sawyoung Reid writhing in the grip of themonster who was strangling out his life.

Mackenzie wrenched free from the greathand that closed about his throat, tearingthe mighty arm away with the strength ofboth his own. A moment, and he wasinvolved in the most desperate strugglethat he had ever faced in his life.

This interference gave Reid a new gulp oflife. The three combatants were on theirfeet now, not a word spoken, not a soundbut the dull impact of blows and the hardbreathings of the two who fought thismonster of the sheeplands for their lives.Swan Carlson, Mackenzie believed him tobe, indulging his insane desire for

strangling out the lives of men. He hadapproached so stealthily, with such wildcunning, that the dogs had given no alarm,and had taken the gun to insure againstmiscarriage or interruption in his horriblemenu of death.

A brief tangle of locked arms, swayingbodies, ribs all but crushed in the embraceof those bestial arms, and Mackenzie wasconscious that he was fighting the battlealone. In the wild swirl of it he could notsee whether Reid had fallen or torn free.A little while, now in the pressure ofthose hairy, bare arms, now free for onegasping breath, fighting as man neverfought in the sheeplands before that hour,and Mackenzie felt himself snatched upbodily and thrown down from uplifted

arms with a force that must have ended allfor him then but for the interposition of asage-clump that broke the fall.

Instantly the silent monster was upon him.Mackenzie met him hand to hand, fightingthe best fight that was in him, chilled withthe belief that it was his last. But he couldnot come up from his knees, and in thisposition his assailant bent over him, onehand on his forehead, the other at the backof his neck, a knee against his breast.

Mackenzie tore at the great, stiff arms withhis last desperate might, perhaps staying alittle the pressure that in a moment moremust snap his spine. As the assassintightened this terrible grip Mackenzie’sface was lifted toward the sky. Overheadwas the moon, clear-edged, bright, in the

dusk of the immensities beyond; behindthe monster, who paused that breath as indesign to fill his victim’s last momentwith a hope that he soon would mock,Mackenzie saw young Reid.

The youth was close upon the midnightstrangler, stooping low. As the terriblepressure on forehead and neck cracked hisspine like a breaking icicle, Mackenziebelieved he shouted, putting into his voiceall that he felt of desperate need of help.And he saw young Reid strike, and felt thebreaking wrench of the cruel hands relax,and fell down upon the ground like a deadman and knew no more.

Reid was there with the lantern, puttingwater on Mackenzie’s head when he againbroke through the mists and followed the

thread of his soul back to his body. Reidwas encouraging him to be steady, and totake it easy, assuring him that he neversaw a man put up such a fight as theschoolmaster had all but lost.

Mackenzie sat up presently, withthrobbing head, a feeling of bulging in hiseyeballs, his neck stiff from the wrenchingit had received. The great body of the manwhom he had fought lay stretched in themoonlight, face to the ground. The campbutcher knife was sticking in his back.Mackenzie got to his feet, a dizziness overhim, but a sense of his obligation as clearas it ever was in any man.

“I owe you one for that; I’ll not forget it ina hurry,” he said, giving Reid his hand.

“No, we’re even on it,” Reid returned.

“He’d ’a’ broke my neck in anothersecond if you hadn’t made that tackle.Who is he, do you know?”

“Turn him over,” Mackenzie said.

Reid withdrew the knife, sticking it intothe ground with as little concern as if hehad taken it from a butcher’s block, andheaved the fellow over on his back. Themoonlight revealed his dusty featuresclearly, but Mackenzie brought the lanternto make it doubly sure.

“He’s not the man I thought he was,” saidhe. “I think this fellow’s name is MattHall. He’s the sheep-killer you’ve heardabout. Look––he’s all over blood––there’s wool on his shirt.”

“Matt Hall, huh?” said Reid. He wiped

the butcher knife on the dead sheep-killer’s shirt, making a little whistling,reflective sound through his teeth. “I’llhave to scour that knife before we cutbacon with it in the morning,” he said.

CHAPTER XIV

THE LONESOMENESS

“He’s got the lonesomeness,” said Dad,“and I tell you, John, when that gits a holdof a man he ain’t responsible. It’s thesame as shuttin’ a man up in jail to breakhim off of booze––say, he’ll claw therocks out of the wall with his finger nailsto git out where he can take a snort.”

“I never had the lonesomeness, so I don’tknow, but there’s something the matterwith the kid.”

“Yes, I see him tearin’ around the countryridin’ the head off of that horse, never

lookin’ where he’s goin’ any more than abat. He’s been clean over to Four Cornersafter the mail twice this week. A fellermust want a letter purty bad when he’ll goto all that fuss for it.”

“I’m afraid it’s going to be hard for him;he hasn’t any more than bitten into histhree years yet; he don’t really know howthey taste.”

“It’ll break him; he’ll go all to pieces, Itell you John. When the lonesomenesstakes a hold of a feller that way somethingpops in his head after a while; then heeither puts a bullet through his heart orsettles down and gits fat. That feller ain’tgot it in him to put on loco fat.”

Dad had slicked himself up pretty wellthat day before cutting across the range for

a chat with Mackenzie. His operationswith the sheep-shears on his fuzzywhiskers had not been uniform, probablydue to the lack of a mirror. Dad trusted tothe feel of it when he had no water by tolook into and guide his hand, and this timehe had cut close to the skin in severalplaces, displaying his native color beneaththe beard. But whatever he lacked in hischin-hedge he made up for in carefularrangement of his truly beautiful hair.

There was a sniff of perfume about him, anosegay of wild flowers pinned in thepocket of his shirt. Mackenzie marveledover these refinements in the old man’severyday appearance, but left it to his owntime and way to tell what plans orexpectations prompted them.

“Hector Hall showed up?”

“No.”

“Reid wouldn’t make any more than asnap and a swaller out of that feller, Iguess. But it ain’t good for a man like himto start out killin’; it goes to his liver tooquick and drives him mooney.”

“I don’t suppose it’s very healthy for anyman, Dad.”

“You said it! I’ve went fifty miles arounda range to skip a feller that was lookin’for my skelp, and I’d go a thousand beforeI’d crowd a fight. I never was much on thefight, and runnin’ sheep took what littlewas in me out a long time ago.”

Dad got out his red box of corn-huskcigarettes, offering it silently to

Mackenzie, who shook his head, knowingvery well that Dad did it to observeconventions rather than out of a desire tohave him help himself. The stock ofMexican smokes was running low; Dadhad spoken of it only the day before, andhis feet were itching for the road to theborder, he said.

“Well, he’s got a name and a fame in thiscountry he can travel on,” said Dad.

Which was true enough. Mackenzie’s fightwith Swan Carlson had taken secondplace, his reputation as a fighting man inthe sheeplands had paled almost tonothing, after Reid’s swift-handed dealingwith Matt Hall. The fame of his exploitran through the country, fixing his place init at once, for Matt Hall was known as a

man who had the strength of seven in hislong, gorilla arms.

Hector Hall, brother of the slain man,seemed to accept the tragedy with asorrowful resignation in which no shadowof revenge appeared. He let it be knownthat Matt had been irresponsible at times,given to night-prowlings and outbreaks ofviolence of strange and fantastic forms.How much truth there was in this excusefor the dead man, Hector alone knew. Butno matter for his passivity, Mackenzie didnot trust him. He made a requisition onTim Sullivan at once for revolvers forhimself and Reid, which Tim delegatedthe young man to go to Four Corners andbuy.

“Well, I come over to see if you’ll lend

Reid to me three or four days while Imake a trip to town,” said Dad. “I’ve got alittle business over there to tend to I’vebeen puttin’ off for more than a month.”

“Yes, if it’s all right with Tim you canhave him. What’s up, getting married?”

“Kind of arrangin’, John, kind ofarrangin’. There’s a widow-lady over atFour Corners I used to rush that needs aman to help her with her sheep. A manmight as well marry a sheep ranch aswork on one, I reckon.”

“It’s a shorter cut, anyhow. When do youwant Reid?”

“I was aimin’ to rack out this evenin’,John.”

“I’ll send him over this afternoon. I don’t

know where he is, but he’ll be back fordinner.”

Dad went away well satisfied and full ofcheer, Mackenzie marveling over hismarital complexities as he watched himgo. Together with Rabbit, and the Mexicanwoman down El Paso way whom Johnhad mentioned, but of whom Dad neverhad spoken, and no telling how many morescattered around the country, Dad seemedto be laying the groundwork for a livelyroundup one of his days. He said he’dbeen marrying women off and on for fortyyears. His easy plan seemed to be just totake one that pleased his capricioustemper wherever he found her, withoutregard to former obligations.

Mackenzie grinned. He did not believe

any man was so obscure as to be able toescape many wives. Dad seemed to be adry-land sailor, with a wife in every townhe ever had made in his life. Mackenzieunderstood about Mexican marriages. Ifthey were priest marriages, they werecounted good; if they were merely justiceof the peace ones they were subject towide and elastic infringement on bothsides. Probably Indian marriages weresimilar. Surely Dad was old enough toknow what he was about.

Reid came to camp at noontime, andprepared dinner in his quick and handyway. Mackenzie did not take up thequestion of his acting as relief for Dadwhile the old scout went off to push hisarrangements for marrying a sheep ranch,

seeing that Reid was depressed anddown-spirited and in no pleasant mood.

They were almost independent of thecamp-mover, owing to their lightequipment, which they could carry withthem from day to day as the sheep ranged.Supplies were all they needed from thewagon, which came around to them twicea week. After dinner Reid began packingup for the daily move, moody and silent,cigarette dangling on his lip.

“It’s a one-hell of a life!” said he, lookingup from the last knot in the rope about thebundle of tent.

“Have you soured on it already, Earl?”

Reid sat on the bundle of tent, a cloud onhis face, hat drawn almost to the bridge of

his nose, scowling out over the sheeprange as if he would curse it to a greaterbarrenness.

“Three years of this, and what’ll I be?Hell! I can’t even find that other Hall.”

“Have you been out looking for him?”

“That big Swede over there was tellin’ mehe’s put me down in his book for a killin’.I thought I’d give him a chance to get itover with if he meant it.”

“Has Carlson been over?”

“No, I rode over there the other evening.Say, is that the woman you found chainedup when you struck this country?”

“She’s the one.”

Mackenzie looked at Reid curiously as he

answered. There was something of quickeagerness in the young man’s inquiry, asudden light of a new interest in his face,in sharp contrast with the black mood of amoment before.

“She looks like an Ibsen heroine,” saidReid. “Take that woman out of thiscountry and dress her right, and she’d be aqueen.”

“You’d better keep away from there,” saidMackenzie, dryly.

“Oh, I guess I can take care of Swan if youcould,” Reid returned, with a certain easyinsolence, jerking his hip to hitch his gunaround in suggestive movement.

Mackenzie dropped the matter withoutmore words, seeing too plainly the humor

of the youth. Maybe Dad had diagnosedhis ailment aright, but to Mackenzie itappeared something more than plainlonesomeness. The notoriety attending thekilling of Matt Hall had not been good forReid. He wanted more of it, and a biggeraudience, a wider field.

If this was a taste of the adventure of theWest’s past romantic times, Mackenziefelt that he was lucky he had come too lateto share it. His own affair with SwanCarlson had been sordid enough, but thisunlucky embroilment in which Reid hadkilled a man was a plain misfortune to thehero of the fight. He told Reid of Dad’srequest.

“You go and run his sheep for him,” Reidsuggested. “It’ll take you a little nearer

Joan.”

This he added as with studied sneer, hisface flushing darkly, his thin mouthtwisted in an ugly grin.

Mackenzie passed it, but not without thehurt of the unkind stab showing in his face.It was so entirely unjustified as to becruel, for Mackenzie was not in Reid’sway even to the extent of one lurking,selfish thought. Since Reid had saved hislife from Matt Hall’s murderous hands,Mackenzie had withdrawn even his mostremote hope in regard to Joan. Before thathe had spun his thread of dreams, quitehonestly, and with intent that he would nothave denied, but since, not at all.

He owed Reid too much to cross him withJoan; he stepped aside, denying himself a

thought of her save only in relation ofteacher and pupil, trying to convincehimself that it was better in the end forJoan. Reid had all the advantage of him inprospects; he could lift up the curtain onhis day and show Joan the splendors of aworld that a schoolmaster could point outonly from afar. Mackenzie seemed toignore the youth’s suggestion that he goand tend Dad’s flock.

“If I had a thousand dollars I’d dust it forMexico tomorrow,” said Reid. He turnedto Mackenzie, pushing his hat back fromhis forehead, letting the sun on hissavagely knotted face. “I haven’t gotmoney to send a telegram, not even aspecial delivery letter! Look at me! Amillionaire’s son and sole heir, up against

a proposition like this for three years!”

Mackenzie let him sweat it out, offeringneither water for his thirst nor wood forhis fire. Reid sat in surly silence, runninghis thumb along his cartridge belt.

“A man’s friends forget him out here,” hecomplained; “he’s the same to them asdead.”

“It’s the way everywhere when a manwants to borrow money,” Mackenzie toldhim, not without the shade of a sneer.

“I’ve let them have enough in my time thatthey could afford to come across withwhat I asked for!”

“I think you’d better stick to the sheepbusiness with Tim,” Mackenzie advised,not unkindly, ashamed of his momentary

weakness and scorn. “A man’s prospectsdon’t look very good back home when abunch of parasites and grafters won’tcome over with a little loan.”

“They can go to the devil! I can livewithout them.”

“And get fat on it, kid. Three years herewill be little more to you than as manydays, if you get––interested.”

Reid exclaimed impatiently, dismissingsuch assurance with a testy gesture.

“How much will you give me for mychances?” he asked.

“Nobody else can play your hand, kid.”

“On the square, Mackenzie. Will you giveme a thousand dollars?”

“I’m not sole heir to any millionaire,”Mackenzie reminded him, taking theproposal in the jesting spirit that hesupposed it was given.

“On the dead, Mackenzie––I mean it. Willyou give me a thousand dollars for myplace in the sheep game, girl and all? Ifyou will, I’ll hit the breeze tonight forMexico and kick it all over to you, win orlose.”

“If I could buy you out for a dime wecouldn’t trade,” Mackenzie told him, acoldness in tone and manner that wasmore than a reproof.

“Joan ought to be worth that much to you!”Reid sneered.

Mackenzie got up, walked a few steps

away, turned back presently, his temper inhand.

“It’s not a question open to discussionbetween gentlemen,” he said.

Reid blinked up at him, an odd leer on hissophisticated face, saying no more. Hemade a pack on his saddle of the campoutfit, and started off along the ridge,leaving Mackenzie to follow as hepleased. A mile or more along Reidpitched upon a suitable camping place. Hehad himself established long beforeMackenzie came to where he sat smokingamid his gloomy, impatient thoughts.

“I’m not going over to relieve that oldskunk,” Reid announced, “not withoutorders from Sullivan. If he gets off you’llhave to relieve him yourself. I don’t wantthat Hall guy to get it into his nut that I’mrunnin’ away from him.”

“All right, Earl,” said Mackenzie, good-naturedly, “I’ll go.”

“You’ll be half an hour nearer Joan’scamp––she’ll have that much longer tostay,” said Reid, his mean leer creepinginto his wide, thin lips again.

Mackenzie turned slowly to look himsquarely in the eyes. He stood so a fewseconds, Reid coloring in hot resentmentof the silent rebuke.

“I’ve heard enough of that to last me therest of your three years,” Mackenzie said,something as hard as stones in a cushionunder his calm voice.

Reid jerked his hip in his peculiartwisting movement to shift his pistol belt,turned, and walked away.

If it was the lonesomeness, Mackenziethought, it was taking a mighty peculiar

turn in that fellow. He was more like acub that was beginning to find itself, andbristle and snarl and turn to bite the handthat had fended it through its helplessstage. Perhaps it would pass in a littlewhile, or perhaps it would get worse onhim. In the latter case there would be noliving on the range with Reid, for on therange Mackenzie believed Reid wasdestined to remain. He had been trying toborrow money to get away, with whatview in his dissatisfied head Mackenziecould not guess. He hadn’t got it; hewouldn’t get it. Those who had fattened onhim in his prosperity were strangers tohim in his time of penance and disgrace.

Mackenzie put off his start to Dad’s campuntil dusk, knowing the old man would

prefer to take the road at night, after hismysterious way. He probably would hoofit over to Sullivan’s and borrow abuckboard to make a figure in before thewidow-lady upon whom he had anchoredhis variable heart.

Reid was bringing in the sheep whenMackenzie left, too far away for a word.Mackenzie thought of going down to him,for he disliked to part with anything like ashadow between them, feeling that heowed Reid a great debt indeed. More thanthat, he liked the kid, for there seemed tobe a streak of good in him that all his uglymoods could not cover. But he went hisway over the hills toward Dad’s camp, thethought persisting in him that he would,indeed, be thirty minutes nearer Joan. And

it was a thought that made his heart jumpand a gladness burn in his eyes, and hisfeet move onward with a swift eagerness.

But only as a teacher with a lively interestin his pupil, he said; only that, and nothingmore. On a hilltop a little way beyond hiscamp he stopped suddenly, his breath heldto listen. Over the calm, far-carryingsilence of the early night there came thesound of a woman singing, and this wasthe 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 morningfrom Reid’s camp, not having heard ofMackenzie’s shift to oblige Dad Frazer.She was bareheaded, the sun in her warmhair, hat hanging on her saddle-horn.

“Dad might have come by and told me,”she said, flinging to the ground as lightlyas a swallow. “It would have saved ushalf an hour.”

“We’ll have to work harder to make itup,” Mackenzie told her, thinking howmuch more a woman she was growing

every day.

Joan was distrait again that day, her eyesfixed often in dreamy speculation as herteacher explained something that she foundhard, against her wonted aptness, tounderstand. When the rather disjointedlesson came to an end Joan sighed,strapping her books in a way that seemedto tell that she was weary of them.

“Do you still think you’ll stick to thesheep business, John?” she asked, notlifting her eyes to his face, all out of herfrank and earnest way of questioning.

“I’m only on probation, you know, Joan;something might happen between now andthis time next year to change things allaround. There’s a chance, anyhow, that Imay not make good.”

“No, nothing will ever happen to changeit,” said Joan, shaking her head sadly.“Nothing that ought to happen everhappens here. I don’t know whether I canstand it to carry out my contract with dador not. Three years between me and whatI’m longing for!”

“It’s not very long when one’s young,Joan. Well, I don’t know of any short cutsto either fame or fortune, or I’d have takenthem myself.”

“Yes, but you’re free to pick up and gowhenever you want to. A man don’t haveto have money to strike out and see theworld––I don’t see why a woman should.I could work my way as well asanybody.”

“They’re harder masters out there than the

range is to you here, Joan. And there’s theinsolence of mastery, and the obloquy ofpoverty and situation that I hope you’llnever feel. Wait a little while longer withthe probationers among the sheep.”

“Earl never will stay it out,” she said,lifting her eyes for a moment to his. “He’ssick of it now––he’d throw everythingover if he had the money to get away.”

“He’d be a very foolish young man, then.But it’s like breaking off smoking, I guess,to quit the things you’ve grown up with onshort notice like he had.”

“Maybe in about a year more my interestwill amount to enough to let me out,” saidJoan, pursuing her thought of winning tofreedom in the way she had elected. Sheseemed innocent of any knowledge of the

arrangement whereby Earl Reid wasworking for his reward. Mackenziewondered if it could be so.

“If dad’ll buy me out then,” she said,speculatively, doubtfully, carrying on herthought in a disjointed way. “It would belike him to turn me down, though, if I wantto quit before my time’s up. And hewouldn’t let me divide the sheep and sellmy share to anybody else.”

No, Joan could not yet know of Tim’sarrangement with Earl Reid’s father. Itwould be like Tim, indeed, to bargain heroff without considering her in the matter atall. To a man like Tim his sons anddaughters were as much his chattels as hissheep, kind as he was in his way. Theapprenticeship of Joan to the range was

proof of that. Somewhere out in that grayloneliness two younger daughters wererunning sheep, with little brothers asprotectors and companions, beginningtheir adventures and lessons in the onlyschool they were ever likely to know.

Tim made a great virtue of the fact that hehad taught all of them to read and write.That much would serve most of themsatisfactorily for a few years, butMackenzie grinned his dry grin to himselfwhen he thought of the noise there wouldbe one day in Tim Sullivan’s cote whenthe young pigeons shook out their wings tofly away. It was in the breed to do that; itlooked out of the eyes of every one.

“I sent and got a Bible from the mail-orderhouse,” said Joan, looking up with lively

eyes.

“Has it come already?”

“Charley got it yesterday. I found thatstory about Jacob and Rachel and theweak-eyed girl. It’s awful short.”

“But it tells a good deal, Joan.”

Joan seemed thinking over how much theshort story really told, her eyes far awayon the elusive, ever-receding blue curtainthat was down between her and the world.

“Yes, it tells a lot,” she sighed. “But Jakemust not have been very bright. Well, hewas a cowman, anyhow; he wasn’trunning sheep.”

“I think he went into the sheep businessafterwards,” Mackenzie said, diverted by

her original comment on the old tale.

“Yes, when his girls got big enough to dothe work!” The resentment of her hardyears was in Joan’s voice, the hardness ofunforgiving regret for all that had beentaken from her life.

Mackenzie felt a sweep of depressionengulf him like a leaping wave. Joan wasin the humor to profit by any arrangementthat would break her bondage to sheep;Tim Sullivan had been bringing her up,unconsciously, but none the lesseffectively, to fit into this scheme formarrying her to his old friend’s rakish son.When the day came for Joan to know ofthe arrangement, she would leap toward itas toward an open door.

Still, it should not concern him. Once he

had believed there was a budding blossomon his hitherto dry branch of romance; ifhe had been so ungenerous as to takeadvantage of Joan’s loneliness and urgethe promise to florescence, they mighthave been riding down out of thesheeplands together that day.

It would have been a venture, too, headmitted. For contact with the world ofmen must prove a woman, even as thehardships of the range must prove a man.Perhaps the unlimited variety displayedbefore her eyes would have made Joandissatisfied with her plain choice.

At that moment it came to him that perhapsJoan was to be tested and proved here,even as he was being tested in TimSullivan’s balance for his fitness to

become a master over sheep. Here weretwo fair samples of men out of the world’sassorted stock––himself and Reid. One ofthem, deliberate, calm, assured of hisway, but with little in his hand; the other agrig that could reel and spin in the night-lights, and flutter to a merry tune.

With Mackenzie the rewards of life wouldcome to her slowly, but with a sweetsavor of full understanding andappreciation as they were won. Many ofthem most desired might never be attained;many more might be touched andwithdrawn in the mockery that fatepractices so heartlessly upon men. Reidcould convey her at once over the roughsummits which men and women wear theirhearts threadbare to attain. With Reid the

journey would begin where, with the besthoping, it must in his own company almostend.

“It was unlucky for Earl that he killedMatt Hall,” said Joan, taking up anotherthread of thought in her discursive, unfixedhumor of that day.

“It’s unfortunate for any man to have tokill another, I guess. But it has to be donesometimes.”

“Matt deserved it, all right––he oughthave been killed for his mean face longago––but it’s turned Earl’s head, haven’tyou noticed? He thinks he’s got one footon each side of this range, herdin’everybody between his legs.”

“He’ll get over it in a little while.”

“He’s not got brains enough to hold himdown when the high winds begin to blow.If he’s a fair sample of what they’ve got inOmaha, I’ll cross it off my map when Ibegin to travel.”

“Dad says he’s got the lonesomeness.”

“More of the cussedness.”

Her words warmed Mackenzie like aprecious cordial. At every one of them inderogation of Reid his heart jumped,seeming to move him by its tremendousvibration a little nearer to her. He felt thatit was traitorous exultation at the expenseof one who had befriended him to a limitbeyond which it is hard for a man to go,but he could not drown the exhilaration ofa reborn hope in even the deepest watersof his gratitude.

Somebody ought to tell Joan what they haddesigned for her in company with EarlReid; somebody ought to tell her, but itwas not his place. It was strange that shehad read the young man’s weakness soreadily. Mackenzie had noted more thanonce before in his life that those who livenearest to nature are the most apt inreading all her works.

“He’ll never stay here through a winter,”Joan predicted, with certainty thatadmitted no argument. “Give him a touchof twenty-two below, and a snow on ahigh wind, and send him out to bed downthe sheep where it’ll blow over them! Ican see him right now. You’ll do it, allright, and I’ll have to, like I have donemany a time. But we’re not like Earl.

Earl’s got summer blood.”

Mackenzie took her hand, feeling ittremble a little, seeing her face grow pale.The sun was red on the hill, the sheepwere throwing long shadows down theslope as they grazed lazily, some of themstanding on knees to crop the lush bunchgrass.

“Yes, Joan, you and I are of differentblood,” he said. “We are of the blood ofthe lonesome places, and we’ll turn backto them always from our wandering andseeking contentment among the press ofmen. He can’t have you––Earl Reid can’thave you––ever in this world!”

So it was out, and from his own mouth,and all his reserve was nothing, and hissilent pledging but as an idle word. Joan

was looking at him with wide and seriouseyes.

“Earl Reid?”

“Earl Reid,” he nodded. “I’d be a cowardto give you up to him.”

Joan was not trembling now. She put herfree hand over Mackenzie’s where itgripped her fingers so hard that Earl Reidmight have been on the opposite side ofher, trying to rive her away from him byforce; she looked up into his eyes andsmiled. And there were flecks of goldenbrown in Joan’s eyes, like flakes of metalfrom her rich hair. They seemed toincrease, and to sparkle like jewels struckthrough placid water by strong sunbeamsas she looked up into his face.

“I thought dad had made some kind of adeal with him,” she said, nodding in herwise way, a truant strand of hair on hercalm forehead. “They didn’t tell meanything, but I knew from the way dadlooked at me out of the corners of his eyesthat he had a trade of some kind on. Tellme about it, John.”

There was no explanation left toMackenzie but the degrading truth, and hegave it to her as Tim Sullivan had given itto him.

“They had their nerve!” said Joan, flushedwith resentment.

“It’s all off, as far as it affects you andme,” Mackenzie said, fetching his browstogether in a frown of denial. “Reid can’thave you, not even if he comes into two

million when the old man dies.”

“No,” said Joan softly, her hand strokinghis, her eyes downcast, the glow of thenew-old dawn upon her cheek; “there’sonly room for one Jacob on this range.”

“I thought I owed it to Reid, as a matter ofhonor between men, to step aside and lethim have you, according to the plan. Butthat was a mistake. A man can’t pay hisdebts 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 himwith a needle, felt his telltale blood flarered 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 bitaccusingly; “you didn’t owe him anythingthen––that was before he came.”

“I respected you too much to takeadvantage of your coming to me that wayfor your lessons day by day, Joan. I had tofight to keep it back.”

“I tried to pull it out of you,” Joan said, asserious as a penitent, although there was asmile breaking on her lips as she turnedher face away.

“I’d never want to do anything, or sayanything, that would lower your respectfor me one little degree, Joan,” he said,still clinging to her hand as though he

feared he had not quite won her, and musthold her fast by his side for the finalword.

“I know you wouldn’t, John,” said she, hervoice shaking a little, and low beneath herbreath.

“I wouldn’t want to––to––go as far asJacob went that first time he saw Rachel,”said he in desperation, his grip tighteningon her fingers, sweat bursting on his brow.“I wouldn’t want to––I’d want to, allright, but I wouldn’t even––even–––”

Joan looked up at him with calm, placideyes, with pale cheeks, with yearning lips,a flutter in her heart that made her weak.She nodded, anxious to help him to hisclimax, 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 youcould understand it so, I wouldn’t even––Iwouldn’t so much as–––” He took her facebetween his hands, and bent over her, anda glad little sob trembled between Joan’slips as she rested her hands on hisshoulders for the benediction of his kiss.

Joan did not stay to help him bring in thesheep that day, for there was nothing leftfor her to wonder over, or stand wistfullyby her saddle waiting to receive. Neitherwas there any sound of weeping as sherode up the hill, for the male custom ofexpressing joy in that way had gone out offashion on the sheep ranges of this worldlong before John Mackenzie’s day.

Nothing that he could owe a man could

equal what he had gained that hour,Mackenzie thought, standing there withheart as light as the down of cottonwood.With his great debt paid to Earl Reid,even to the measure of his own life, hewould still leave the world a rich man. Hehad come into the fresh pastures ofromance at last.

Joan waved him good-bye from the hilltopand went on, the understanding of hisfortune growing on him as he recalled hereyes in that moment when she closed themto his salute upon her lips. She gave upthat first kiss that she ever had yielded toany man as though he had reached downand plucked it out of her heart.

Let them go on planning for years of labor,let them go on scheming for inheritances,

and piece their broken arrangementstogether as they might when they found hehad swept Joan out of their squalidcalculations as a rider stoops and lifts akerchief from the ground. There would bebitterness and protestations, and rifts inhis own bright hopes, as well.

But if Tim Sullivan would not give her upto him with the good grace of a man,Mackenzie said, smiling and smiling like adaft musician, he would take her from bothof them and ride away with her into thevalleys of the world which she was sohungry in her young heart to behold.

He rounded his sheep to their hillside, andmade his fire, a song in his heart, but hislips sealed, for he was a silent man. Andat dusk there came riding into his camp a

man, whose coat was at his cantle, whowas belted with pistols, who roved hiseye with cautious look as he halted andgave the shepherd good evening.Mackenzie invited him down to thehospitality of the camp, which the strangeraccepted with hearty grace.

“I was lookin’ for a young feller by thename of Reid; you’re not the man,” thestranger said with finality, after one moreshrewd look into Mackenzie’s face.

“My name’s Mackenzie––Reid’s running aband of sheep for the same outfit aboutfive miles east of here.”

The stranger said nothing more, beingbusy at that moment unsaddling his horse,which he hobbled and turned to graze. Hecame over to the fire where Mackenzie

was baking biscuits in a tilted pan, and satdown, dusty from his day’s ride.

“I’m the sheriff of this county,” heannounced, not going into the detail of hisname. Mackenzie nodded hisacknowledgment, the sheriff keeping hishungry eye on the pan. “I took a cut acrosshere from servin’ some subpoenas in amurder case on some fellers up onFarewell Creek,” he explained, “to seehow that feller Reid’s behavin’.”

“I haven’t heard any complaint,”Mackenzie told him, wondering why thisofficial interest. The sheriff seemedsatisfied with what he heard, and made nofurther inquiry or explanation until after hehad eaten his supper. As he smoked acracked cigar which he took from the

pocket of his ornate vest, he talked.

“I didn’t know anything about that boywhen Sullivan put him in here on therange,” he said, “but the other day I got aletter from the sheriff in Omaha askin’ meto keep my eye on him. The news ofReid’s killin’ Matt Hall got over toOmaha. You know Reid, he’s undersentence of three years in the pen.”

“I didn’t know.”

“Yeah. Daddy got him paroled toSullivan’s sheep ranch to serve it. If hebreaks over here he goes to the pen.That’s the way he stands.”

“In that case, he’ll more than likely stay itout.”

“He will if he’s wise. He’s been a kind of

a streak of wildness, the sheriff in Omahasaid. Sent me his full history, three pages.Married somebody a year or so ago, butthe old man got him out of that by buyin’off the girl. Then he started out forgin’,and pushed it so hard the old man refusedto make good any more. But he didn’twant to see the kid go to the pen, and he’shere. I got to keep my eye on him to see hedon’t break over.”

The sheriff stretched out when he hadfinished his cigar and went to sleep in ablanket provided by his host. He was upwith dawn, ready to resume his journey.Mackenzie pressed him to stay forbreakfast, but he said he wanted to make astart before the sun and reach Sullivan’sranch-house.

“Does Sullivan know how things standwith Reid?” Mackenzie inquired.

“I reckon he must. If he don’t he soon will.Kind of watch that feller, will you, andslip me word if he shows any signs ofstreakin’ out of the country.”

“No, I’ve got my eye full looking after twothousand sheep. That’s up to Sullivan,he’s responsible for Reid.”

The sheriff turned a sharp look ofsuspicion on Mackenzie, but said nothing.He led his horse down to the little streamfor water, and came leading it back, a castof disfavor in his face.

“You’re a bad bunch up in here,” he said,“you and Carlson and Hall. If there’s anymore killin’ and fightin’ up this way I’ll

come in and clean you all out. Where didyou say that feller was at?”

Mackenzie told him again, and he rode offto take a look at Reid, and put whatcaution into his ear he had a mind to give.Mackenzie saw him blend into the gloomof early morning with a feeling of self-felicitation on his act of yesterday. Hewas inspired yesterday when he took Joanunder his protection and laid claim to herin his own right.

CHAPTER XVI

REID BEGINS HIS PLAY

Dad Frazer came back after five days,diminished in facial outline on account ofhaving submitted his stubble beard to thebarber at Four Corners. In reverse of allspeculation on Mackenzie’s part, thisoperation did not improve the old man’sappearance. Dad’s face was one of thekind that are built to carry a beard;without it his weaknesses were tooapparent to the appraising eye.

Dad made glowing report of his successwith the widow at Four Corners.

Preliminaries were smoothed; he had leftthe widow wearing his ring.

“We’ll jump the broomstick in about amonth from now,” Dad said, full ofsatisfaction for his business stroke. “I aimto settle down and quit my roamin’, John.”

“And your marrying, too, I hope, you oldrascal!”

“Yes, this one will be my last, I reckon. Idon’t mind, though; I’ve had doin’s enoughwith women in my day.”

“Is she a good looker, Dad?”

“Well, I’ve seen purtier ones and I’veseen uglier ones, John. No, she ain’t whatyou might call stylish, I guess, but she’sall right for me. She’s a little off in oneleg, but not enough to hurt.”

“That’s a slight blemish in a lady withmoney in the bank, Dad.”

“I look at it that way, on the sensible side.Good looks is all right in a woman, butthat ain’t all a man needs to make him easyin his mind. Well, she did lose the sight ofher left eye when she was a girl, but shecan see a dollar with the other one furtherthan I can see a wagon wheel.”

“No gentleman would stop at the smalltrifle of an eye. What else, Dad?”

“Nothing else, only she’s carryin’ a littlemore meat right now than a woman likesto pack around in hot weather. I don’tmind that; you know, I like mine fat; youcan’t get ’em too fat for me.”

“I’ve heard you say so. How much does

she weigh?”

“Well, I guess close to three hundred,John. If she was taller, it wouldn’t showso much on her––she can walk under myarm. But it’s surprisin’ how that womancan git around after them sheep!”

Dad added this hopefully, as if bound toappend some redeeming trait to all herphysical defects.

“How many does she own?”

“About four thousand. Not much of a band,but a lot more than I ever could lay claimto. She’s got a twelve-thousand acreranch, owns every foot of it, more thanhalf of it under fence. What do you think ofthat? Under fence! Runs them sheep rightinside of that bull-wire fence, John, where

no wolf can’t git at ’em. There ain’t nobears down in 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 featherbed, Dad.”

“Ain’t I? What does a man care about alittle hobble, or one eye, or a little chunkof fat, when he can step into a layout likethat?”

“Why didn’t you lead her up to thehitching-rack while you were there?Somebody else is likely to pick your plumwhile your back’s turned.”

“No, I don’t reckon. She’s been on the treequite a spell; she ain’t the kind you youngfellers want, and the old ones is most

generally married off or in the soldiers’home. Well, she’s got a little cross ofIndian and Mexican in her, anyway; thatkind of keeps ’em away, you know.”

It was no trouble to frame a mental pictureof Dad’s inamorata. Black, squat, squint; aforehead a finger deep, a voice that wouldcarry a mile. Mackenzie had seen thatcross of Mexican and Indian blood, with adash of debased white. They were not thekind that attracted men outside their ownmixed breed, but he hadn’t a doubt thatthis one was plenty good enough, andhandsome enough, for Dad.

Mackenzie left the old man with this newhappiness in his heart, through which aprocession of various-hued women hadworn a path during the forty years of his

taking in marriage one month and takingleave the next. Dad wasn’t nervous overhis prospects, but calm and calculative, asbecame his age. Mackenzie went smilingnow and then as he thought of the team theblack nondescript and the old fellowwould make.

He found Reid sitting on a hilltop with hisface in his hands, surly and out of sorts,his revolver and belt on the ground besidehim as if he had grown weary of theirweight. He gave a short return toMackenzie’s unaffected greeting andinterested inquiry into the conduct of thesheep and the dogs during his absence.

Reid’s eyes were shot with inflamedveins, as if he had been sitting all nightbeside a smoky fire. When Mackenzie sat

near him the wind bore the pollution ofwhisky from his breath. Reid made a showof being at his ease, although the veins inhis temples were swollen in the stress ofwhat must have been a splitting headache.He rolled a cigarette with nonchalancealmost challenging, and smoked in silence,the corners of his wide, salamander mouthdrawn down in a peculiar scoffing.

“I suppose that guy told you the wholestory,” he said at last, lifting his eyesbriefly to Mackenzie’s face.

“The sheriff, you mean?”

“Who else?” impatiently.

“I don’t know whether he told me all ornot, but he told me plenty.”

“And you’ve passed it on to Joan by

now!”

“No.”

Reid faced around, a flush over his thincheeks, a scowl in his eyes. He took uphis belt; Mackenzie marked how his handstrembled as he buckled it on.

“Well, you keep out of it, you damnedpedagogue!” Reid said, the words burstingfrom him in vehement passion. “This is mygame; I’ll play it without any more of yourinterference. You’ve gone far enough withher––you’ve gone too far! Drop it; let heralone.”

Mackenzie got up. Reid stood facing him,his color gone now, his face gray.Mackenzie held him a moment with stern,accusing eyes. Then:

“Have you been over there spying onme?”

Reid passed over the question, leavingMackenzie to form his own conclusions.His face flushed a little at the sting ofcontempt that Mackenzie put into hiswords. He fumbled for a match to light hisstub of cigarette before he spoke:

“I played into your hands when I let yougo over there, and you knew I’d play intothem when you proposed it. But that won’thappen twice.”

“I’ll not allow any man to put adeliberately false construction on mymotives, Reid,” Mackenzie told him,hotly. “I didn’t propose going over to letDad off, and you know it. I wanted you togo.”

“You knew I wouldn’t,” Reid returned,with surly word.

“If you’ve been leaving the sheep to goover there and lie on your belly like asnake behind a bush to spy on Joan andme, and I guess you’ve been doing it, allright––you’re welcome to all you’vefound out. There aren’t any secretsbetween Joan and me to keep fromanybody’s eyes or ears.”

Reid jerked his thin mouth in expressionof derision.

“She’s green, she’s as soft as cheese. Anyman could kiss her––I could have done itfifteen minutes after I saw her the firsttime.”

If Reid hoped to provoke a quarrel

leading up to an excuse for making use ofthe gun for which his hand seemed to itch,he fell short of his calculations.Mackenzie only laughed, lightly, happily,in the way of a man who knew the worldwas his.

“You’re a poor loser, Earl,” he said.

“I’m not the loser yet––I’m only takin’ upmy hand to play. There won’t be room onthis range for you and me, Mackenzie,unless you step back in yourschoolteacher’s place, and lie down like alittle lamb.”

“It’s a pretty big range,” Mackenzie said,as if he considered it seriously; “I guessyou can shift whenever the notion takesyou. You might take a little vacation ofabout three years back in a certain state

concern in Nebraska.”

“Let that drop––keep your hands off ofthat! You don’t know anything about thatlittle matter; that damned sheriff don’tknow anything about it. If Sullivan’ssatisfied to have me here and give me hisgirl, that’s enough for you.”

“You don’t want Joan,” said Mackenzie,speaking slowly, “you only want what’sconditioned on taking her. So you’d just aswell make a revision in your plans rightnow, Reid. You and Sullivan can gettogether on it and do what you please, butJoan must be left out of your calculations.I realize that I owe you a good deal, butI’m not going to turn Joan over to you tosquare the debt. You can have my moneyany day you want it––you can have my life

if you ever have to draw on me that far––but you can’t have Joan.”

Mackenzie walked away from Reid at theconclusion of this speech, which was ofunprecedented length for him, and of suchearnestness that Reid was not likely toforget it soon, no matter for its length. Thedogs left Reid to follow him.

That Reid had been fraternizing withSwan Carlson, Mackenzie felt certain,drinking the night out with him in hiscamp. Carlson had a notoriety for hisaddiction to drink, along with his otherunsavory traits. With Reid going off intwo different directions from him,Mackenzie saw trouble ahead betweenthem growing fast. More than likely one ofthem would have to leave the range to

avoid a clash at no distant day, for Reidwas in an ugly mood. Loneliness, liquor,discontent, native meanness, and a desireto add to the fame in the sheep country thatthe killing of Matt Hall had brought him,would whirl the weak fellow to hisdestruction at no distant day.

Yet Reid had stood by him like a man inthat fight with Matt Hall, when he couldhave sought safety in withdrawal and lefthim to his unhappy end. There wassomething coming to him on that accountwhich a man could not repudiate orignore. Whatever might rise betweenthem, Mackenzie would owe his life toReid. Given the opportunity, he stoodready and anxious to square the debt by alike service, and between men a thing like

that could not be paid in any other way.

Reid remained a while sitting on thehilltop where Mackenzie had found him,face in his hands, as before. After a timehe stretched out and went to sleep, theardent sun of noonday frying the lees ofSwan Carlson’s whisky out of him.Toward three o’clock he roused, got hishorse, saddled it, and rode away.

Mackenzie believed he was going to huntmore whisky, and went to the rise of aridge to see what course he took. Butinstead of striking for Carlson’s, Reid laida course for Sullivan’s ranch-house.Going to Tim with a complaint againsthim, Mackenzie judged, contempt for hissmallness rising in him. Let him go.

Tim Sullivan might give him half his

sheep if he liked him well enough, but hecould not give him Joan.

CHAPTER XVII

HERTHA CARLSON

Swan Carlson or his woman was runninga band of sheep very close to the borderof Tim Sullivan’s lease. All afternoonMackenzie had heard the plaint of lambs;they had lifted their wavering chorus allduring Joan’s lesson, giving her greatconcern that Carlson designed attemptinga trespass on her father’s land.

Joan had come shortly after Reid’sunexplained departure, and had gone backto her flock again uninformed of Reid’scriminal career. Mackenzie felt that he did

not need the record of his rival to holdJoan out of his hands. The world hadchanged around for him amazingly in thepast few days. Where the sheeplands hadpromised little for him but a hardapprenticeship and doubtful rewards alittle while ago, they now showered himwith unexpected blessings.

He ruminated pleasantly on this suddencoming round the corner into the fields ofromance as he went to the top of the hill atsunset to see what Swan Carlson wasabout. Over in the next valley there spreada handful of sheep, which the shepherdwas ranging back to camp. Mackenziecould not make sure at that distancewhether the keeper was woman or man.

Reid had not returned when Mackenzie

plodded into camp at dusk. His absencewas more welcome, in truth, than hiscompany; Mackenzie hoped he would sulka long time and stay away until he got hiscourse in the sheep country plainly beforehis eyes. If he stayed his three years thereit would be on account of sheep, andwhatever he might win in his father’s goodgraces by his fidelity. Joan was not tofigure thenceforward in any of hisschemes.

Three years on the sheep range with noprospect of Joan! That was what Reid hadahead of him now.

“I think I’d take mine in the pen,”Mackenzie said, leaning back to comfortwith his pipe. Night came down; the dogslay 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 bristlesrising, a low growl in its throat. The otherrose cautiously, walking away crouching,with high-lifted feet. Mackenzie listened,catching no noise to account for theiralarm. A little while, and the sound ofHertha Carlson’s singing rose from thehill behind him, her song the same, thedoleful quality of its air unmodified.

Na-a-fer a-lo-o-one, na-a-fer a-lone,He promise na-fer to leafe me,Na-fer to leafe me a-lone!

“Strange how she runs on that,”Mackenzie muttered, listening for her torepeat, as he had heard her the night her

singing guided him to her melancholydoor. A little nearer now the songsounded, the notes broken as if the singerwalked, stumbling at times, so muchsadness in it, so much longing, suchunutterable hopelessness as to wring thelistener’s heart.

Swan was beating her again, neglectingher, subjecting her to the cruelties of hissavage mind; there was no need for thewoman to come nearer to tell him that.Only grief for which there was nocomfort, despair in which there was nohope, could tune a human note to thateloquent expression of pain. Perhaps shewas wandering in the night now for thesolace of weariness, pouring out the threelines of her song in what seemed the

bitterness of accusation for a promiseunfulfilled.

The dogs came back to Mackenzie’s side,where they sat with ears lifted, but with noexpression of hostility or alarm in theirbearing now. They were only curious, astheir master was curious, waiting to see ifthe wandering singer would come on intocamp.

There was no glow of lantern to guide her,and no moon, but she came straight forwhere Mackenzie sat. A little way off shestopped.

“Hello!” she hailed, as if uncertain of herwelcome.

Mackenzie requested her to come on,lighting the lantern which he had ready to

hand. Mrs. Carlson hesitated, drawingback a little when she saw his face.

“I thought it was Earl,” she said.

“Earl’s not here tonight. Sit down and restyourself, Mrs. Carlson. You don’tremember me?”

“I remember. You are the man who cut mychain.”

“I thought you’d forgotten me.”

“No, I do not forget so soon. A long time Iwanted to kill you for the blow you gaveSwan that night.”

“As long as Swan was good to you,” saidhe, “of course you would. How do youfeel about it now?”

“I only cry now because he did not die.

He was different a little while after he gotwell, but again he forgets. He beats me; heleaves me 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 ofsheep; he is worse since he bought Hall’sflock. It is more than I can endure!”

Mrs. Carlson was worried and worn, fastlosing all she had gained in flesh andcolor during Swan’s period of kindnesswhen she had thrown herself into his wildways and ridden the range like a fightingwoman at his side. Much of hercomeliness remained in her sad face andgreat, luminous, appealing eyes, for it wasthe comeliness of melancholy which

sorrow and hard usage refined. She wouldcarry her grace with her, and the paleshred of her youthful beauty, down to thelast hard day. But it was something thatSwan was insensible to; it could notsoften his hand toward her, nor bend hiswild thoughts to gentleness. Now he haddenied her again the little share he hadgranted her in his wild life, and mustbreak the thing he had made, going hismorose way alone.

“I hadn’t heard he’d bought Hall’s sheep,”Mackenzie said. “Is he going to run themon this range?”

“No, he says I shall go there, where thewolves are many and bold, even bydaylight, to watch over them. There Iwould be more alone than here. I cannot

go, I cannot go! Let him kill me, but I willnot go!”

“He’s got a right to hire a man to run them;he can afford it.”

“His money grows like thistles. WhereSwan touches the earth with the seed of it,money springs. Money is a disease that hespreads when he walks, like the scalesthat fall from a leper. Money! I pray Godnight and day that a plague will sweepaway his flocks, that a thief will find hishiding place, that a fire will burn the bankthat locks in his 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, pityingher from the well of his tender heart.

“God is deaf; he cannot hear!” she said,bitter, hopeless, yet rebellious against thesilence of heaven and earth that she couldnot penetrate with her lamentations andbring relief.

“No, you shouldn’t let yourself believeany such thing,” he chided, yet with agentleness that was almost anencouragement.

“This land is a vacuum, out of whichsound cannot reach him, then,” she sighed,bending her sad head upon her hands. “Ihave cried out to him in a sorrow thatwould move a stone on the mountain-side,but God has not heard. Yes, it must be thatthis land is a vacuum, such as I read ofwhen I was a girl in school. Maybe––”looking up with eager hopefulness––“if I

go out of it a little way, just on the edge ofit and pray, God will be able to hear myvoice?”

“Here, as well as anywhere,” he said,moved by her strange fancy, by the hungerof her voice and face.

“Then it is because there is a curse onme––the curse of Swan’s money, of hisevil ways!” She sprang up, stretching herlong arms wildly. “I will pray no more, nomore!” she cried. “I will curse God, I willcurse him as Job cursed him, and flingmyself from the rocks and die!”

Mackenzie was on his feet beside her, hishand on her shoulder as if he would stayher mad intention.

“No, no!” he said, shocked by the

boldness of her declaration. “Yourtroubles are hard enough to bear––don’tthicken them with talk like this.”

She looked at him blankly, as if she didnot comprehend, as though her reason hadspent itself in this rebellious outbreakagainst the unseen forces of her saddestiny.

“Where is your woman?” she asked.

“I haven’t any woman.”

“I thought she was your woman, but if sheis not, Swan can have her. Swan can haveher, then; I do not care now any more.Swan wants her, he speaks of her in thenight. Maybe when he takes her he will setme free.”

Mrs. Carlson sat again near the lantern,

curling her legs beneath her with thefacility of a dog, due to long usage of themin that manner, Mackenzie believed, whenchained to the wall in her lonely houseamong the trees. Mackenzie stood a littlewhile watching her as she sat, chin in herhands, pensive and sad. Presently he satnear her.

“Where is Swan tonight?” he asked.

“Drinking whisky beside the wagon withHector Hall. They will not fight. No.”

“No,” he echoed, abstractedly, making amental picture of Carlson and Hall besidethe sheep-wagon, the light of a lantern ontheir faces, cards in their fists, a jug ofwhisky in the middle ground within reachfrom either hand. It was such diversion asSwan Carlson would enjoy, the night

around him as black as the shadows of hisown dead soul.

“Earl did not come to me this night,” shesaid, complaining in sad note. “Hepromised he would come.”

“Has he been going over there to seeyou?” Mackenzie asked, resentful of anyadvantage Reid might be seeking over thishalf-mad creature.

“He makes love to me when Swan isaway,” she said, nodding slowly, lookingup with serious eyes. “But it is only falselove; there is a lie in his eyes.”

“You’re right about that,” Mackenzie said,letting go a sigh of relief.

“He tries to flatter me to tell him whereSwan hides the money he brought from the

bank,” she said, slowly, wearily, “but himI do not trust. When I ask him to do whatmust first be done to make me free, he willnot speak, but goes away, pale, pale, likea frightened girl.”

“You’d better tell him to stay away,”Mackenzie counseled, his voice stern andhard.

“But you would not do that,” shecontinued, heedless of his admonition. Sheleaned toward him, her great eyes shiningin the light, her face eager in its sorrowfulcomeliness; she put out her hand andtouched his arm.

“You are a brave man, you would not turnwhite and go away into the night like awolf to hear me speak of that. Hush! hush!No, no––there is no one to hear.”

She looked round with fearful eyes,crouching closer to the ground, her breathdrawn in long labor, her hand tighteningon his arm. Mackenzie felt a shuddersweep coldly over him, moved by thetragedy her attitude suggested.

“Hush!” she whispered, hand to hermouth. And again, leaning and peering:“Hush!” She raised her face to him, agreat eagerness in her burning eyes. “Killhim, kill Swan Carlson, kind young man,and set me free again! You have nowoman? I will be your woman. Kill him,and take me away!”

“You don’t have to kill Swan to get awayfrom him,” he told her, the tragedy dyingout of the moment, leaving only pity in itsplace. “You can go on tonight––you never

need to go back.”

Hertha came nearer, scrambling to himwith sudden movement on her knees, puther arm about his neck before he couldread her intention or repel her, andwhispered in his ear:

“I know where Swan hides the money––Ican lead you to the place. Kill him, goodman, and we will take it and go far awayfrom this unhappy land. I will be yourwoman, faithful and true.”

“I couldn’t do that,” he said gently, as if tohumor her; “I couldn’t leave my sheep.”

“Sheep, sheep!” said she, bitterly. “It isall in the world men think of in this land––sheep! A woman is nothing to them whenthere are sheep! Swan forgets, sheep make

him forget. If he had no sheep, he wouldbe a kind man to me again. Swan forgets,he forgets!”

She bent forward, looking at the lantern asif drawn by the blaze, her great eyes brightas a deer’s when it stands fascinated by atorchlight a moment before boundingaway.

“Swan forgets, Swan forgets!” shemurmured, her staring eyes on the light.She rocked herself from side to side, and“Swan forgets, Swan forgets!” shemurmured, like the burden of a lullaby.

“Where is your camp?” Mackenzie askedher, thinking he must take her home.

Hertha did not reply. For a long time shesat leaning, staring at the lantern. One of

the dogs approached her, bristles raised infear, creeping with stealthy movement,feet lifted high, stretched its neck to sniffher, fearfully, backed away, andcomposed itself to rest. But now and againit lifted its head to sniff the scent that camefrom this strange being, and which it couldnot analyze for good or ill. Mackenziemarked its troubled perplexity, almost asmuch at sea in his own reckoning of her asthe dog.

“No, I could not show you the money andgo away with you leaving Swan livingbehind,” she said at last, as if she haddecided it finally in her mind. “That I havetold Earl Reid. Swan would follow me tothe edge of the world; he would stranglemy neck between his hands and throw me

down dead at his feet.”

“He’d have a right to if you did him thatkind of a trick,” Mackenzie said.

“Earl Reid comes with promises,” shesaid, unmindful of Mackenzie; “he sitsclose by me in the dark, he holds me bythe hand. But kiss me I will not permit;that yet belongs to Swan.” She looked up,sweeping Mackenzie with her appealingeyes. “But if you would kill him, then mylips would be hot for your kiss, braveman––I would bend down and draw yoursoul into mine through a long, long kiss!”

“Hush!” Mackenzie commanded, sternly.“Such thoughts belong to Swan, as muchas the other. Don’t talk that way to me––Idon’t want to hear any more of it.”

Hertha sat looking at him, that cast of dullhopelessness in her face again, the lightdead in her eyes.

“There are strange noises that I hear in thenight,” she said, woefully; “there is a deadchild that never drew breath pressedagainst my heart.”

“You’d better go back to your wagon,” hesuggested, getting to his feet.

“There is no wagon, only a canvas spreadover the brushes, where I lie like a wolf ina hollow. A beast I am become, among thebeasts of the field!”

“Come––I’ll go with you,” he offered,holding out his hand to lift her.

She did not seem to notice him, but satstroking her face as if to ease a pain out of

it, or open the fount of her tears whichmuch weeping must have drained long,long ago.

Mackenzie believed she was going insane,in the slow-preying, brooding way ofthose who are not strong enough towithstand the cruelties of silence andloneliness on the range.

“Where is your woman?” she asked again,lifting her face suddenly.

“I have no woman,” he told her, gently, ingreat pity for her cruel burden underwhich she was so unmistakably breaking.

“I remember, you told me you had nowoman. A man should have a woman; hegoes crazy of the lonesomeness on thesheep range without a woman.”

“Will Swan be over tomorrow?”Mackenzie asked, thinking to take her caseup with the harsh and savage man and seeif he could not be moved to sending heraway.

“I do not know,” she returned coldly, hermanner changing like a capricious wind.She rose as she spoke, and walked away,disappearing almost at once in thedarkness.

Mackenzie stood looking the way shewent, listening for the sound of her going,but she passed so surely among the shrubsand over the uneven ground that no noiseattended her. It was as though her failingmind had sharpened her with animalcaution, or that instinct had come forwardin her to take the place of wit, and serve

as her protection against dangers whichher faculties might no longer safeguard.

Even the dogs seemed to know of heraffliction, as wild beasts are believed bysome to know and accept on a commonplane the demented among men. Theyknew at once that she was not going toharm the sheep. When she left camp theystretched themselves with contented sighsto their repose.

And that was “the lonesomeness” as theyspoke of it there. A dreadful affliction, acorrosive poison that gnawed the hearthollow, for which there was no cure butcomradeship or flight. Poor HerthaCarlson was denied both remedies; shewould 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 struckdeep into his soul, turning him morose,wickedly vindictive, making him hungrywith an unholy ambition to slay. Joan musthave suffered from the same disorder. Itwas not so much a desire in her to seewhat lay beyond the blue curtain of thehills as a longing for companionshipamong them.

But Joan would put away her unrest; shehad found a cure for the lonesomeness.Her last word to him that day was that shedid not want to leave the sheep range now;that she would stay while he remained,and fare as he fared.

Rachel must have suffered from thelonesomeness, ranging her sheep over the

Mesopotamian plain; Jacob had it when hefelt his heart dissolve in tears at the sightof his kinswoman beside the well ofHaran. But Joan was safe from it now; itsinsidious poison would corrode in herheart no more.

Poor Hertha Carlson, deserving betterthan fate had given her with sheep-madSwan! She could not reason withoutviolence any longer, so often she had beensubjected to its pain.

“It will be a thousand wonders if shedoesn’t kill him herself,” Mackenzie said,sitting down with new thoughts.

The news of Swan’s buying Hall out wasimportant and unexpected. Free to leavethe country now, Hall very likely wouldbe coming over to balance accounts.

There was his old score againstMackenzie for his humiliation at the handsof the apprentice sheepherder, whichdoubtless had grown more bitter day byday; and there was his double accountagainst Reid and Mackenzie for the loss ofhis sheep-killing brother. Mackenziehoped that he would go away and letmatters stand as they were.

And Swan. It had not been all a jest, then,when he proposed trading his woman forMackenzie’s. What a wild, irresponsible,sheep-mad man he was! But he hardlywould attempt any violence toward Joan,even though he “spoke of her in the night.”

From Carlson, Mackenzie’s thoughts ranout after Reid. Contempt rose in him, anddeepened as he thought of the mink-faced

youth carrying his deceptive poison intothe wild Norseman’s camp. But insane asshe was, racked by the lonesomeness to beaway from that unkindly land, HerthaCarlson remained woman enough to set abarrier up that Reid, sneak that he was,could not cross.

What a condition she had made, indeed!Nothing would beguile her from it; only itsfulfilment would bend her to yield to hisimportunities. It was a shocking mess thatReid had set for himself to drink someday, for Swan Carlson would come uponthem in their hand-holding in his hour, ascertainly as doom.

And there was the picture of the red-haired giant of the sheeplands and thatflat-chested, sharp-faced youth drinking

beside the sheep-wagon in the night. Therewas Swan, lofty, cold, unbending; therewas Reid, the craft, the knowledge of theworld’s under places written on his brow,the deceit that he practiced against his hosthidden away in his breast.

Mackenzie sighed, putting it from him likea nightmare that calls a man from his sleepby its false peril, wringing sweat from himin its agony. Let them bind in drink andsever in blood, for all that he cared. It wasnothing to him, any way they mightcombine or clash. Joan was his; that wasenough to fill his world.

CHAPTER XVIII

SWAN CARLSON’S DAY

Dad Frazer came over the hills nextmorning after the dew was gone.Mackenzie saw him from afar, and wasinterested to note that he was not alone.That is to say, not immediatelyaccompanied by anybody, yet not alonefor a country where a quarter of a milebetween men is rather close company.

Somebody was coming on after the oldshepherd, holding about the same distancebehind him in spite of little dashes downslopes that Dad made when for a moment

out of sight. Mackenzie’s wonder over thispeculiar behavior grew as the old mancame near, and it was discovered to theeye that his persistent shadow was awoman.

Dad wasted neither words nor breath onhis explanation when he came panting upthe slope that brought him to the placewhere Mackenzie stood above his sheep.

“It’s that dad-burned Rabbit!” he said.

There was something between vexationand respect in Dad’s voice. He turned tolook back as he spoke. Rabbit hadmounted the hilltop just across the dip,where she stood looking over at hershifty-footed lord, two sheep-dogs at herside.

“How did she locate you?” Mackenzieinquired, not in the least displeased overthis outreaching of justice after the fickleold man.

“She’s been trailin’ me four years!” Dadwhispered, his respect for Rabbit’spowers on the scent unmistakable.

“That’s a long time to hold a cold trail.Rabbit must be some on the track!”

“You can’t beat them Indians follerin’ aman if they set their heads to it. Well, it’sall off with the widow-lady at FourCorners now––Rabbit’s got me nailed.You see them sheep-dogs? Them dogsthey’d jump me the minute Rabbit winkedat ’em––they’d chaw me up like a coupleof lions. She’s raised ’em up to do it, dad-burn her! Had my old vest to learn ’em the

scent.”

“A man never ought to leave his old vestbehind him when he runs away from hiswife,” said Mackenzie, soberly. “But itlooks to me like a woman with the stickingqualities Rabbit’s got isn’t a bad one tostay married to. How in the world could areservation squaw find her way around tofollow you all this time?”

“She’s educated, dang her; she went to thesisters’ mission. She can read and write asight better than me. She’s too smart for asquaw, bust her greasy eyes! Yes, and I’llnever dast to lay a hand on her with themdogs around. They’d chaw me upquicker’n a man could hang up his hat.”

Rabbit composed herself after her patientbut persistent way, sitting among the

bushes with only her head showing,waiting for Dad’s next move.

“You’re married to her regularly, are you,Dad?”

“Priest marriage, dang it all!” said Dad,hopelessly.

“Then it is all off with the one-eyedwidow.”

“Yes, and them four thousand sheep, andthat 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 aminute as long as I live. I reckon I’ll haveto stay right here and run sheep for Tim,

and that widow-lady wonderin’ why Idon’t show up!”

“You might do worse, Dad.”

“Yes, I reckon I might. Rabbit she’s asgood as any man on the range handlin’sheep, she can draw a man’s paywherever she goes. I guess I could put herto work, and that’d help some.”

Dad brightened a bit at that prospect, anddrew his breath with a new hope. Evenwith the widow gone from hiscalculations, the future didn’t promise allloss.

“But I bet you I’ll shoot them two dogs thefirst time I can draw a bead on ’em!” Daddeclared.

“Maybe if you’ll treat Rabbit the right

way she’ll sell them. Call her over, Dad;I’d like to get acquainted with her.”

Dad beckoned with his hand, but Rabbitdid not stir; waved his hat to emphasizehis command; Rabbit remained quietamong the bushes, the top of her blackhead in plain view.

“She’s afraid we’ve hatched up some kindof a trick between us to work off on her,”said Dad.

“You can’t blame her for being a littledistrustful, Dad. But let her go; I’ll meether at your camp one of these days.”

“Yes, you’ll meet her over there, all right,for she’s goin’ to stick to me till I’m underground. That’s one time too many Imarried––just one time too many!”

“I suppose a man can overdo it; I’ve heardit said.”

“If I hadn’t ’a’ left that blame vest!”

“Yes, that seems to be where youblundered. You’ll know better next time,Dad.”

“Yes, but there never will be no nexttime,” Dad sighed.

“Have you seen Reid over your way thismorning?”

“No, I ain’t seen him. Is he still roamin’and restless?”

“He left yesterday; I thought he was goingto the ranch.”

“Didn’t pass my way. That feller’s off, Itell you, John; he’s one of the kind that

can’t stand the lonesomeness. Leave himout here alone two months, and he’d put abullet in his eye.”

“It seems to me like it’s a land ofdaftness,” Mackenzie said.

“You’ll find a good many cracked peopleall over the sheep country––I’m kind o’cracked myself. I must be, or I neverwould ’a’ left that vest.”

Dad took off his hat to smooth hissweeping curled locks, as white asshredded asbestos, and full of the samelittle gleams that mineral shows when ablock of it from the mine is held in the sun.His beard was whitening over his faceagain, like a frost that defied the heat ofday, easing its hollows and protuberances,easing some of the weakness that the

barber’s razor had laid so pitilessly bare.In a few days more he would appearhimself again, and be ready for the sheep-shears in due time.

“I reckon I’ll have to make the best of theplace I’m in, but for a man of puncture, asthe feller said, like I used to think I was, Isure did miscombobble it when I marriedthat educated squaw. No woman I everwas married to in my life ever had senseenough to track a man like that woman’sfollered me. She sure is a wonder on thescent.”

Patiently Rabbit was sitting among thebushes, waiting the turn of events, not tobe fooled again, not to be abandoned, ifvigilance could insure her against suchdistress. Mackenzie’s admiration for the

woman grew with Dad’s discomfitureover his plight. There was an added flavorof satisfaction for him in the old man’sblighted career. Wise Rabbit, to have apriest marriage, and wiser still to followthis old dodger of the sheeplands andbring him up with a short halter in theevening of his days.

“I’ll go on back and look after themsheep,” said Dad, with a certain sadinflection of resignation; “there’s nothingelse to be done. I was aimin’ to servenotice on Tim to find another man in myplace, but I might as well keep on. Well, Ican set in the shade, anyhow, and letRabbit do the work––her and them blamedogs.”

Dad sighed. It helped a great deal to know

that Rabbit could do the work. He lookedlong toward the spot where his unshakenwife kept her watch on him, but seemed tobe looking over her head, perhaps tryingto measure all he had lost by this comingbetween him and the one-eyed widow-lady of Four Corners.

“I wonder if I could git you to write aletter over to that widow and tell her I’mdead?” he asked.

“I’ll do it if you want me to. But you’renot dead yet, Dad––you may outliveRabbit and marry the widow at last.”

“I never was no lucky man,” said Dad,smoothing his gleaming hair. “A manthat’s married and nailed down to oneplace is the same as dead; he might aswell be in his grave. If I’d ’a’ got that

widow-lady I’d ’a’ had the means and themoney to go ridin’ around and seein’ thesights from the end of one of them carswith a brass fence around it. But I’mnailed down now, John; I’m cinched.”

Dad was so melancholy over his situationthat he went off without more words, athing unheard of for him. He gave Rabbit awide fairway as he passed. When he wasa respectable distance ahead the squawrose from her bush and followed, suchdetermination in her silent movements asto make Dad’s hope for future freedomhollow indeed. The old man was cinchedat last; Mackenzie was glad that it was so.

The sound of Carlson’s sheep was stillnear that morning, and coming nearer, aswhoever attended them ranged them

slowly along. Mackenzie went a little wayacross the hill in that direction, but couldnot see the shepherd, although the sheepwere spread on the slope just before him.It was a small flock, numbering not aboveseven hundred. Mackenzie was puzzledwhy Swan wanted to employ his own orhis wife’s time in grazing so small anumber, when four times as many could behandled as easily.

This question was to be answered for himvery soon, and in a way which he neverhad imagined. Yet there was noforeboding of it in the calm noonday as heprepared his dinner in the shade of somewelcome willows, the heat glimmeringover the peaceful hills.

It was while Mackenzie sat dozing in the

fringe of shade such as a hedge would castat noonday that the snarl of fighting dogsbrought him up to a realization of whatwas going forward among the sheep. Hisown flock had drifted like a slow cloud tothe point of the long ridge, and there SwanCarlson’s band had joined it. The twoflocks were mingling now, and on theedge of the confused mass his own dogsand Carlson’s were fighting.

Swan was not in sight; nobody seemed tobe looking after the sheep; it appeared asif they had been left to drift as they mightto this conjunction with Mackenzie’sflock. Mackenzie believed Mrs. Carlsonhad abandoned her charge and fledSwan’s cruelty, but he did not excusehimself for his own stupidity in allowing

the flocks to come together as he ran to theplace where his dogs and Carlson’sfought.

The sheep were becoming morehopelessly mingled through thiscommotion on their flank. Mackenzie wasbeating the enraged dogs apart when SwanCarlson came running around the point ofthe hill.

Swan immediately took part in the mêléeof gnashing, rolling, rearing dogs, layingabout among them with impartial hand,quickly subduing them to obedience. Hestood looking stonily at Mackenzie,unmoved by anger, unflushed by exertion.In that way he stood silent a little while,his face untroubled by any passion thatrolled in his breast.

“You’re runnin’ your sheep over on mygrass––what?” said Swan.

“You’re a mile over my range,”Mackenzie accused.

“You’ve been crowdin’ over on me for amonth,” Swan said, “and I didn’t saynothing. But when a man tries to run hissheep over amongst mine and drive ’emoff, I take a hand.”

“If anybody’s tryin’ such a game as that,it’s you,” Mackenzie told him. “Get ’emout of here, and keep ’em out.”

“I got fifteen hundred in that band––you’llhave to help me cut ’em out,” said Swan.

“You had about seven hundred,”Mackenzie returned, dispassionately,although it broke on him suddenly what the

big flockmaster was trying to put through.

Counting on Mackenzie’s greenness, andperhaps on the simplicity of his nature asthey had read it in the sheep country, Swanhad prepared this trap days ahead. He hadrun a small band of the same breed asSullivan’s sheep––for that matter but onebreed was extensively grown on therange––over to the border of Tim’s leasewith the intention of mingling them anddriving home more than he had brought.Mackenzie never had heard of the trickbeing worked on a green herder, but herealized now how simply it could bedone, opportunity such as this presenting.

But it was one thing to bring the sheepover and another thing to take them away.One thing Mackenzie was sure of, and that

was the judgment of his eyes in numberingsheep. That had been Dad Frazer’s firstlesson, and the old man had kept him at ituntil he could come within a few headamong hundreds at a glance.

“I’ll help you cut out as many as you had,”Mackenzie said, running his eyes over themingled flocks, “they’re all alike, one asgood as another, I guess. It looks like yougot your stock from this ranch, anyhow,but you’ll not take more than sevenhundred this trip.”

“My dogs can cut mine out, they know ’emby the smell,” Swan said. “I had fifteenhundred, and I bet you I’ll take fifteenhundred back.”

The dogs had drawn off, each set behindtheir respective masters, panting, eyeing

each other with hostility, one rising nowand then with growls, threatening to openthe battle again. The sheep drifted about inconfusion, so thoroughly mingled now thatit would be past human power to separatethem again and apportion each respectivehead to its rightful owner.

“Seven hundred, at the outside,”Mackenzie said again. “And keep them offof my grass when you get ’em.”

Carlson stood where he had stopped, tenfeet or more distant, his arms bare, shirtopen on his breast in his way ofpicturesque freedom. Mackenzie waitedfor him to proceed in whatever way hehad planned, knowing there could be nocompromise, no settlement in peace. Hewould either have to yield entirely and

allow Carlson to drive off seven or eighthundred of Sullivan’s sheep, or fight.There didn’t seem to be much question onhow it would come out in the latter event,for Carlson was not armed, andMackenzie’s pistol was that moment underhis hand.

“You got a gun on you,” said Swan, incasual, disinterested tone. “I ain’t got nogun on me, but I’m a better man without nogun than you are with one. I’m goin’ totake my fifteen hundred sheep home withme, and you ain’t man enough to stop me.”

Carlson’s two dogs were sitting closebehind him, one of them a gaunt gray beastthat seemed almost a purebred wolf. Itsjaws were bloody from its late encounter;flecks of blood were on its gray coat. It

sat panting and alert, indifferent toMackenzie’s presence, watching the sheepas if following its own with its savageeyes. Suddenly Carlson spoke anexplosive word, clapping his great hands,stamping his foot toward Mackenzie.

Mackenzie fired as the wolf-dog sprang,staggering back from the weight of its lankbody hurled against his breast, and firedagain as he felt the beast’s vile breath inhis face as it snapped close to his throat.

Mackenzie emptied his pistol in quick, butwhat seemed ineffectual, shots at the otherdog as it came leaping at Carlson’scommand. In an instant he was involved ina confusion of man and dog, the body ofthe wolfish collie impeding his feet as hefought.

Carlson and the other dog pressed theattack so quickly that Mackenzie had notime to slip even another cartridge into hisweapon. Carlson laughed as he claspedhim in his great arms, the dog clinging toMackenzie’s pistol hand, and in adesperate moment it was done. Mackenziewas lying on his back, the giantsheepman’s knee in his chest.

Carlson did not speak after ordering thedog away. He held Mackenzie a littlewhile, hand on his throat, knee on hischest, looking with unmoved featuresdown into his eyes, as if he consideredwhether to make an end of him there or lethim go his way in added humiliation anddisgrace. Mackenzie lay still underCarlson’s hand, trying to read his intention

in his clear, ice-cold, expressionless eyes,watching for his moment to renew the fightwhich he must push under such hopelessdisadvantage.

Swan’s eyes betrayed nothing of histhoughts. They were as calm anduntroubled as the sky, which Mackenziethought, with a poignant sweep oftranscendant fear for his life, he never hadbeheld so placid and beautiful as in thatdreadful moment.

Carlson’s huge fingers began to tighten inthe grip of death; relax, tighten, eachsuccessive clutch growing longer, harder.The joy of his strength, the pleasure in theagony that spoke from his victim’s face,gleamed for a moment in Carlson’s eyesas he bent, gazing; then flickered like a

light in the wind, and died.

Mackenzie’s revolver lay not more thanfour feet from his hand. He gathered hisstrength for a struggle to writhe fromunder Carlson’s pressing knee. Carlson,anticipating his intention, reached for theweapon and snatched it, laying hold of itby the barrel.

Mackenzie’s unexpected renewal of thefight surprised Carlson into releasing hisstrangling hold. He rose to sitting posture,breast to breast with the fightingsheepman, whose great bulk toweredabove him, free breath in his nostrils,fresh hope in his heart. He foughtdesperately to come to his feet, Carlsonsprawling over him, the pistol lifted highfor a blow.

Mackenzie’s hands were clutchingCarlson’s throat, he was on one knee,swaying the Norseman’s body back in thestrength of despair, when the heavensseemed to crash above him, the fragmentsof universal destruction burying him undertheir weight.

CHAPTER XIX

NOT CUT OUT FOR A SHEEPMAN

Mackenzie returned to conscious state innausea and pain. Not on a surge, but slow-breaking, like the dawn, his senses cameto him, assembling as dispersed birdsassemble, with erratic excursions as ifdistrustful of the place where they desireto alight. Wherever the soul may go insuch times of suspended animation, itcomes back to its dwelling in trepidationand distrust, and with lingering at thedoor.

The first connected thought that Mackenzie

enjoyed after coming out of his shock wasthat somebody was smoking near at hand;the next that the sun was in his eyes. Butthese were indifferent things, drowned ina flood of pain. He put them aside, not togrope after the cause of his discomfort, forthat was apart from him entirely, but to lie,throbbing in every nerve, indifferent eitherto life or death.

Presently his timid life came backentirely, settling down in the old abodewith a sigh. Then Mackenzie rememberedthe poised revolver in Swan Carlson’shand. He moved, struggling to rise, felt asweep of sickness, a flood of pain, butcame to a sitting posture in the way of aman fighting to life from beneath anavalanche. The sun was directly in his

eyes, standing low above the hill. Heshifted weakly to relieve its discomfort.Earl Reid was sitting near at hand, a fewfeet above him on the side of the hill.

Reid was smoking a cigarette, his hatpushed back, the shadows of his latediscontent cleared out of his face. Belowthem the sheep were grazing. They wereall there; Mackenzie had wit enough inhim to see that they were all there.

Reid looked at him with a grin thatseemed divided between amusement andscorn.

“I don’t believe you’re cut out for asheepman, Mackenzie,” he said.

“It begins to look like it,” Mackenzieadmitted. He was too sick to inquire into

the matter of Reid’s recovery of the sheep;the world tipped at the horizon, as it tipswhen 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 lookedafter; you can take my horse.”

Mackenzie was almost indifferent both tothe information of his hurt and the offer forits relief. He lifted his right hand to lookat it, and in glancing down saw hisrevolver in the holster at his side. Thiswas of more importance to him for themoment than his injury. Swan Carlson wasswinging that revolver to strike him whenhe saw it last. How did it get back there inhis holster? Where was Carlson; what hadhappened to him? Mackenzie looked at

Reid as for an explanation.

“He batted you over the head with yourgun––I guess he used your gun, I found itout there by you,” said Reid, still grinningas if he could see the point of humor in itthat Mackenzie could not be expected toenjoy.

Mackenzie did not attempt a reply. Helooked with a sort of impersonal curiosityat his hand and forearm, where the doghad bitten him in several places. That hadhappened a good while ago, he reasoned;the blood had dried, the marks of thedog’s teeth were bruised-looking aroundthe edges.

And the sheep were all there, and Reidwas laughing at him in satisfaction of hisdisgrace. There was no sound of Swan

Carlson’s flock, no sight of the sheepman.Reid had come and untangled whatMackenzie had failed to prevent, and wassitting there, unruffled and undisturbed,enjoying already the satisfaction of hisadded distinction.

Perhaps Reid had saved his life fromCarlson’s hands, as he had saved it fromMatt Hall’s. His debt to Reid wasmounting with mocking swiftness. As if inscorn of his unfitness, Reid had picked uphis gun and put it back in its sheath.

What would Joan say about this affair?What would Tim Sullivan’s verdict be?He had not come off even second best, asin the encounter with Matt Hall, butdefeated, disgraced. And he would havebeen robbed in open day, like a baby, if it

hadn’t been for Reid’s interference.Mackenzie began to think with Dad Frazerthat he was not a lucky man.

Too simple and too easy, too trusting andtoo slow, as they thought of him in thesheep country. A sort of kindly indictmentit was, but more humiliating because itseemed true. No, he was not cut out for asheepman, indeed, nor for anything but thatcalm and placid woman’s work in theschoolroom, it seemed.

Mackenzie looked again at his hand. Therewas no pain in it, but its appearance wassufficient to alarm a man in a normal stateof reasonableness. He had the passingthought that it ought to be attended to, andgot up on weaving legs. He might wash itin the creek, he considered, and so take

out the rough of whatever infection thedog’s teeth had driven into his flesh, butdismissed the notion at once as altogetherfoolish. It needed bichloride of mercury,and it was unlikely there was such a thingwithin a hundred and fifty miles.

As he argued this matter of antisepticswith himself Mackenzie walked awayfrom the spot where Reid remainedseated, going aimlessly, quite unconsciousof his act. Only when he found himselfsome distance away he stopped,considering what to do. His thoughts ranin fragments and flashes, broken by thethrobbing of his shocked brain, yet heknew that Reid had offered to dosomething for him which he could notaccept.

No, he could not place himself underadditional obligation to Reid. Live or die,fail or succeed, Reid should not be calledupon again to offer a supporting hand. Hecould sit there on the hillside and grinabout this encounter with Carlson, andgrin about the hurt in Mackenzie’s handand arm, and the blinding pain in his head.Let him grin in his high satisfaction ofhaving turned another favor toMackenzie’s account; let him grin until hisface froze in a grin––he should not haveJoan.

Mackenzie went stumbling on again to thetune of that declaration. Reid should nothave Joan, he shouldn’t have Joan,shouldn’t have Joan! Blind from pain,sick, dizzy, the earth rising up before him

as he walked, Mackenzie went on. He didnot look back to see if Reid came to helphim; he would have resented it if he hadcome, and cursed him and driven himaway. For he should not have Joan; nothave Joan; Joan, Joan, Joan!

How he found his way to Dad Frazer’scamp Mackenzie never could tell. It waslong past dark when he stumbled to thesheep-wagon wherein the old herder andhis squaw lay asleep, arriving withoutalarm of dogs, his own collies at hisheels. It was the sharp-eared Indianwoman who heard him, and knew by hisfaltering step that it was somebody indistress. She ran out and caught him as hefell.

CHAPTER XX

A MILLION GALLOPS OFF

Joan was returning to camp, weigheddown by a somber cloud. Dad Frazer hadcarried word to her early that morning ofMackenzie’s condition, the old mandivided in his opinion as to whether manor beast had mauled the shepherd and lefthim in such melancholy plight.

“Both man and beast,” Rabbit had toldJoan, having no division of mind in thecase at all. And so Joan believed it to be,also, after sitting for hours in the hotsheep-wagon beside the mangled,

unconscious schoolmaster, who did notmove in pain, nor murmur in delirium, nordrop one word from his clenched, stilllips to tell whose hand had inflicted thisterrible punishment.

And the range seemed bent on making asecret of it, also. Dad had gone hot-foot onJoan’s horse to seek Earl Reid and learnthe truth of it, only to ride in vain over therange where Mackenzie’s flock grazed.Reid was not in camp; the sheep wererunning unshepherded upon the hills. Now,Joan, heading back to her camp at dusk ofthe longest, heaviest, darkest day she everhad known, met Reid as she rode awayfrom Dad Frazer’s wagon, and started outof her brooding to hasten forward andquestion him.

“How did it happen––who did it?” sheinquired, riding up breathlessly whereReid lounged on his horse at the top of thehill waiting for her to come to him.

“Happen? What happen?” said Reid,affecting surprise.

“Mr. Mackenzie––surely you must knowsomething about it––he’s nearly killed!”

“Oh, Mackenzie.” Reid spokeindifferently, tossing away his cigarette,laughing a little as he shaped theshepherd’s name. “Mackenzie had a littletrouble with Swan Carlson, but this timehe didn’t land his lucky blow.”

“I thought you knew all about it,” Joansaid, sweeping him a scornful, accusinglook. “I had you sized up about that way!”

“Sure, I know all about it, Joan,” Reidsaid, but with a gentle sadness in his softvoice that seemed to express his pity forthe unlucky man. “I happened to be awaywhen it started, but I got there––well, I gotthere, anyhow.”

Joan’s eyes were still severe, but aquestion grew in them as she faced him,looking at him searchingly, as if to readwhat it was he hid.

“Where have you been all day? Dad’sbeen looking high and low for you.”

“I guess I was over at Carlson’s when theold snoozer came,” Reid told her, easyand careless, confident and open, in hismanner.

“Carlson’s? What business could you–––”

“Didn’t he tell you about it, Joan?”

“Who, Dad?”

“Mackenzie.”

“He hasn’t spoken since he stumbled intoDad’s camp last night. He’s going to die!”

“Oh, not that bad, Joan?” Reid jerked hishorse about with quick hand as he spoke,making as if to start down at once to thecamp where the wounded schoolmasterlay. “Why, he walked off yesterdayafternoon like he wasn’t hurt much.Unconscious?”

Joan nodded, a feeling in her throat as ifshe choked on cold tears.

“I didn’t think he got much of a jolt whenSwan took his gun away from him and

soaked him over the head with it,” saidReid, regretfully.

“You were there, and you let him do it!”Joan felt that she disparaged Mackenziewith the accusation as soon as the hastywords fell from her tongue, but biting thelips would not bring them back.

“He needs somebody around with him, butI can’t be right beside him all the time,Joan.”

“Oh, I don’t mean––I didn’t––I guess he’sable to take care of himself if they givehim a show. If you saw it, you can tell mehow it happened.”

“I’ll ride along with you,” Reid offered; “Ican’t do him any good by going down tosee him. Anybody gone for a doctor?”

“Rabbit’s the only doctor. I suppose shecan do him as much good as anybody––he’ll die, anyhow.”

“He’s not cut out for a sheepman,” saidReid, ruminatively, shaking his head indepreciation.

“I should hope not!” said Joan, expressingin the emphasis, as well as in the look ofsuperior scorn that she gave him, thedifference that she felt lay betweenMackenzie and a clod who might qualifyfor a sheepman and no questions asked.

“I’ll ride on over to camp with you,” Reidproposed again, facing his horse toaccompany her.

“No, you mustn’t leave the sheep alone atnight––it’s bad enough to do it in the day.

What was the trouble between him andSwan––who started it?”

“Some of Swan’s sheep got over withours––I don’t know how it happened, orwhose fault it was. I’d been skirmishin’around a little, gettin’ the lay of thecountry mapped out in my mind. Swan andMackenzie were mixin’ it up when I gotthere.”

“Carlson set his dogs on him!” Joan’svoice trembled with her high scorn of suchunmanly dealing, such unworthy help.

“He must have; one of the dogs was shot,and I noticed Mackenzie’s hand waschewed up a little. They were scuffling toget hold of Mackenzie’s gun when I gotthere––he’d dropped it, why, you cansearch me! Swan got it. He hit him once

with it before I could––oh well, I guess itdon’t make any difference, Mackenziewouldn’t thank me for it. He’s a surlydevil!”

Joan touched his arm, as if to call himfrom his abstraction, leaning to reach him,her face eager.

“You stopped Swan, you took the gunaway from him, didn’t you, Earl?”

“He’s welcome to it––I owed himsomething.”

Joan drew a deep breath, which seemed toreach her stifling soul and revive it; asoftness came into her face, a light ofappreciative thankfulness 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 sawit in his scabbard down there. Did youhave to––did you have to––do anything toCarlson, Earl?”

Reid laughed, shortly, harshly, a sound soold to come from young lips. He did notmeet Joan’s eager eyes, but sat straight,head up, looking off over the darkeninghills.

“No, I didn’t do anything to him––morethan jam my gun in his neck. He got awaywith thirty sheep more than belonged tohim, though––I found it out when I countedours. I guess I was over there after themwhen Dad was lookin’ for me today.”

“You brought them back?” Joan leanedagain, her hand on his arm, where itremained a little spell, as she looked her

admiration into his face.

“Nothing to it,” said Reid, modestly,laughing again in his grating harsh way ofvast experience, and scorn for the thingswhich move the heart.

“It’s a good deal, I think,” said she. “But,”thoughtfully, “I don’t see what made himdrop his gun.”

“You can search me,” said Reid, in hiscareless, unsympathetic way.

“It might have happened to anybody,though, a dog and a man against him.”

“Yes, even a better man.”

“A better man don’t live,” said Joan, withcalm decision.

Reid bent his eyes to the pommel of his

saddle, and sat so a few moments, in theway of a man who turns something in histhoughts. Then:

“I guess I’ll go on back to the sheep.”

“He may never get well to thank you forwhat you did, Earl,” and Joan’s voicethreatened tears in its low, earnesttremolo, “but I–––”

“Oh, that’s all right, Joan.” Reid wavedgratitude, especially vicarious gratitude,aside, smiling lightly. “He’s not booked togo yet; wait till he’s well and let him dohis own talking. Somebody ought to sneakthat gun away from him, though, and slip atwenty-two in his scabbard. They can’thurt him so bad with that when they take itaway from him.”

“It might have happened to you!” shereproached.

“Well, it might,” Reid allowed, after somereflection. “Sure, it might,” brightening,looking at her frankly, his ingenuous smilesoftening the crafty lines of his thin face.“Well, leave him to Rabbit and Dad;they’ll fix him up.”

“If he isn’t better tomorrow I’m going fora doctor, if nobody else will.”

“You’re not goin’ to hang around there allthe time, are you, Joan?”

Reid’s face flushed as he spoke, his eyesmade small, as if he looked in at a furnacedoor.

Joan did not answer this, only lifted herface with a quick start, looking at him with

brows lifted, widening her great,luminous, tender eyes. Reid stroked herhorse’s mane, his stirrup close to her foot,his look downcast, as if ashamed of thejealousy he had betrayed.

“I don’t mind the lessons, and that kind ofstuff,” said he, looking up suddenly, “but Idon’t want the girl––oh well, you know aswell as I do what kind of a deal the oldfolks have fixed up for you and me, Joan.”

“Of course. I’m going to marry you to saveyou from work.”

“I thought it was a raw deal when theysprung it on me, but that was before I sawyou, Joan. But it’s all right; I’m for itnow.”

“You’re easy, Earl; dad’s workin’ you for

three good years without pay. As far asI’m concerned, you’d just as well hit thebreeze out of this country right now. Dadcan’t deliver the goods.”

“I’m soft, but I’m not that soft, Joan. Icould leave here tomorrow; what’s tohold me? And as far as the old man’scutting me out of his will goes, I couldbeat it in law, and then have a pile bigenough left to break my neck if I was tojump off the top of it. They’re not puttinganything over on me, Joan. I’m sticking tothis little old range because it suits me tostick. I would go tomorrow if it wasn’t foryou.”

Reid added this in a low voice, his wordsa sigh, doing it well, even convincinglywell.

“I’m sorry,” Joan said, moved by hisapparent sincerity, “but there’s not a bit ofuse in your throwing away three years, oreven three more months, of your life here,Earl.”

“You’ll like me better when you begin toknow me, Joan. I’ve stood off because Ididn’t want to interfere with your studies,but maybe now, since you’ve got avacation, I can come over once in a whileand get acquainted.”

“Earl, it wouldn’t be a bit of use.” Joanspoke earnestly, pitying him a little, nowthat she began to believe him.

“Why, we’re already engaged,” he said;“they’ve disposed of us like they doprinces and princesses.”

“I don’t know how they marry them off,but if that’s the way, it won’t work on thesheep range,” said Joan.

“We’ve been engaged, officially, eversince I struck the range, and I’ve neveronce, never even––” He hesitated,constrained by bashfulness, it seemed,from his manner of bending his head andplucking at her horse’s mane.

“We’re not even officially engaged,” shedenied, coldly, not pitying his bashfulnessat all, nor bent to assist him in deliveringwhat lay on the end of his tongue. “Youcan’t pick up a sheepwoman and marryher off––like some old fool king’sdaughter.”

Reid placed his hand over hers where itlay idly on the saddle-horn, the reins

loosely held. He leaned closer, his eyesburning, his face near her own, so nearthat she shrank back, and drew on herhand to come free.

“I don’t see why we need to wait threeyears to get married, Joan,” he argued, hispersuasive voice very soft and tender. “Ifthe old man saw I meant business–––”

“Business!” scorned Joan.

“Sheep business, I mean, Joan,” chidingly,a tincture of injury in his tone.

“Oh, sheep business,” said Joan, leaningfar over to look at the knotting of hercinch.

“Sure, to settle down to it here and take itas it comes, the way he got his start, he’dcome across with all the money we’d

want to take a run out of here once in awhile and light things up. We ought to begettin’ the good out of it while we’ve gotan edge on us, Joan.”

Joan swung to the ground, threw a stirrupacross the saddle, and began to tighten hercinch. Reid alighted with a word ofprotest, offering his hand for the work.Joan ignored his proffer, with a littleindependent, altogether scornful, toss ofthe head.

“You can find plenty of them ready to takeyou up,” she said. “What’s the reason youhave to stay right here for three years, andthen marry me, to make a million dollars?Can’t you go anywhere else?”

“The old man’s picked on this countrybecause he knows your dad, and he settled

on you for the girl because you got into hiseye, just the way you’ve got into mine,Joan. I was sore enough about it at first tothrow the money and all that went with itto the pigs, and blow out of here. But thatwas before I saw you.”

“Oh!” said Joan, in her pettish,discounting way.

“I mean every word of it, Joan. I can’t talklike––like––some men––my heart gets inthe way, I guess, and chokes me off. But Inever saw a girl that I ever lost sleep overtill I saw you.”

Joan did not look at him as he drew nearerwith his words. She pulled the stirrupdown, lifted her foot to it, and stood so asecond, hand on the pommel to mount.And so she glanced round at him, standing

near her shoulder, his face flushed, abrightness in his eyes.

Quicker than thought Reid threw his armabout her shoulders, drawing her to him,his hot cheek against her own, his hotbreath on her lips. Surging withindignation of the mean advantage he hadtaken of her, Joan freed her foot from thestirrup, twisting away from the impendingsalute, her hand to Reid’s shoulder in ashove that sent him back staggering.

“I thought you were more of a man thanthat!” she said.

“I beg your pardon, Joan; it rushed overme––I couldn’t help it.” Reid’s voiceshook as he spoke; he stood withdowncast eyes, the expression ofcontrition.

“You’re too fresh to keep!” Joan said,brushing her face savagely with her handwhere his cheek had pressed it for abreath.

“I’ll ask you next time,” he promised,looking up between what seemed hopeand contrition. But there was a mockinglight in his sophisticated face, a greedysneer in his lustful eyes, which Joan couldfeel and see, although she could not readto the last shameful depths.

“Don’t try it any more,” she warned, in thecool, even voice of one sure of herself.

“I ought to have a right to kiss my futurewife,” he defended, a shadow of a smileon his thin lips.

“There’s not a bit of use to go on harping

on that, Earl,” she said, in a way offriendly counsel, the incident already pastand trampled under foot, it seemed. “Ifyou want to stay here and work for dad,three years or thirty years, I don’t care, butdon’t count on me. I guess if you gostraight and prove you deserve it, you’llnot need any girl to help you get themoney.”

“It’s got to be you––nobody else, Joan.”

“Then kiss your old million––or whateverit is––good-bye!”

Joan lifted to the saddle as if swept into itby a wave, and drew her reins tight, andgalloped away.

CHAPTER XXI

TIM SULLIVAN BREAKS ACONTRACT

“And that will be the end of it,” said TimSullivan, finality in his tone, his facestern, his manner severe. “I’ve passed myword to old Malcolm that you’ll have hisboy, and have him you will.”

“Boy!” said Joan.

“In experience he’s no lad, and I’m gladyou’ve discovered it,” said Tim, warminga little, speaking with more softness, notwithout admiration for her penetration.“He’ll be the better able to look after you,

and see they don’t get his money awayfrom him like some simpleton.”

“Oh, they’ll get it, all right.”

Tim had arrived that morning from a near-by camp as Joan was about to set out forDad Frazer’s. From his way of plungingabruptly into this matter, which he neverhad discussed with her before, and hissharpness and apparent displeasure withher, Joan knew that he had seen Reidovernight. They were beside the sheep-wagon, to a wheel of which Joan’s horsewas tied, all saddled and ready to mount.The sun was already high, for Joan hadhelped Charley range the flock out for itsday’s grazing, and had put all things torights in the camp, anxious as her mindwas over Mackenzie’s state.

“I’ll not have you treat the lad like abeggar come to ask of you, Joan; I’ll nothave it at all. Be civil with him; use himkindly when he speaks.”

“He’s a thousand years older than I am; heknows things that you never heard of.”

“Somebody’s been whisperin’ slanders ofhim in your ear. He’s a fine lad, able tohold his own among men, take ’em wherethey’re found. Don’t you heed what thejealous say about the boy, Joan; don’t youlet it move you at all.”

“I wouldn’t have him if he brought hismillion in a wheelbarrow and dumped itat my feet.”

“It’s not a million, as I hear it,” Timcorrected, mildly, even a bit thoughtfully,

“not more nor a half.”

“Then he’s only half as desirable,” smiledJoan, the little gleam of humor strikinginto her gloomy hour like a sudden ray ofsun.

“You’d run sheep till you was bent andgray, and the rheumatiz’ got set in yourj’ints, me gerrel, before you’d win to thehalf of half a million. Here it comes to youwhile you’re young, with the keenness torelish it and the free hand to spend theinterest off of it, and sail over the seas andsee the world you’re longin’ to know andunderstand.”

Joan’s hat hung on the saddle-horn, themorning wind was trifling with lightbreath in her soft, wave-rippled hair. Herbrilliant necktie had been put aside for

one of narrower span and more sober hue,a blue with white dots. The free ends of itblew round to her shoulder, where theylay a moment before fluttering off to brushher cheek, as if to draw by this slightfriction some of the color back into it thatthis troubled interview had drained away.

She stood with her head high, her chinlifted, determination in her eyes. Thornedshrubs and stones had left their marks onher strong boots, the little teeth of therange had frayed the hem of her short clothskirt, but she was as fresh to see as amorning-glory in the sun. Defianceoutweighed the old cast of melancholy thatclouded her eyes; her lips were fixed in anexpression which was denial in itself asshe stood looking into the wind, her little

brown hands clenched at her sides.

“I want that you should marry him, as Ihave arranged it with old Malcolm,” saidTim, speaking slowly to give it greaterweight. “I have passed my word; let thatbe the end.”

“I’ve got a right to have a word, too.Nobody else is as much concerned in it asme, Dad. You can’t put a girl up and sellher like a sheep.”

“It’s no sale; it’s yourself that comes intothe handlin’ of the money.”

Tim took her up quickly on it, a gleam inhis calculative eye, as if he saw aconvincing way opening ahead of him.

“I couldn’t do it, Dad, as far as I’d go toplease you; I couldn’t––never in this

world! There’s something about him––something–––”

“It’ll wear off; ’tis the strangeness of him,but three years will bring him closer; itwill wear away.”

“It’ll never wear away, because he isn’t––he isn’t clean!”

“Clean?” Tim repeated, turning inamazement as if to seek a witness to sucha preposterous charge. And again:“Clean? He’s as fresh as a daisy, as cleanas a lamb.”

“It’s the way he seems to me,” sheinsisted, with conviction that no argumentwould shake. “I don’t know any othername for it––you can see it in his eyes.”

“Three year here will brace him up, Joan;

he’ll come to you as fresh as lumber out ofthe mill.”

“No, all the wind in the world can’t blowit out of him. I can’t do it, I’ll never do it!”

“And me with my word passed to oldMalcolm!” Tim seemed to grieve over it,and the strong possibility of itsrepudiation; his face fell so long, hisvoice so accusing, so low and sad.

“You’ll not lose any money; you cansquare it up with him some way, Dad.”

“You’ve been the example of a dutifulchild to me,” Tim said, turning to her,spreading his hands, the oil of blarney inhis voice. “You’ve took the work of a manoff of my hands since you were twelveyear old, Joan.”

“Yes, I have,” Joan nodded, a shading ofsadness for the lost years of her girlhoodin her tone. She did not turn to face him,her head high that way, her chin up, hernose in the wind as if her assurance lay inits warm scents, and her courage came onits caress.

“You’ve been the gerrel that’s gone out inthe storm and the bitter blast to save thesheep, and stood by them when their poorsouls shook with the fright, and sootheddown their panic and saved their lives.You’ve been the gerrel that’s worked thesheep over this range in rain and shine,askin’ me nothing, not a whimper or acomplaint out of ye––that’s what you’vebeen to me, Joan. It’s been a hard life fora lass, it’s been a hard and a lonesome

life.”

Joan nodded, her head drooping just alittle from its proud lift. Tears were on herface; she turned it a bit to hide them fromhis eyes.

“You mind the time, Joan, four years agoit was the winter past, when you stood afull head shorter than you stand today,when the range was snowed in, and thesheep was unable to break the crust thatfroze over it, and was huddlin’ in thecañons starving wi’ the hunger that wecouldn’t ease? Heh––ye mind that winter,Joan, gerrel?”

Joan nodded again, her chin trembling asit dropped nearer to the fluttering necktieat her warm, round throat. And the tearswere coursing hotter, the well of them

open, the stone at the mouth of it rolledaway, the recollection of those harsh daysalmost too hard to bear.

“And you mind how you read in the bookfrom the farmer college how a handful ofcorn a day would save the life of a sheep,and tide it over the time of stress andstorm till it could find the grass in underthe snow? Ah-h, ye mind how you read it,Joan, and come ridin’ to tell me? And howyou took the wagons and the teams anddrove that bitter length in wind and snowto old Wellfleet’s place down on theriver, and brought corn that saved to methe lives of no less than twenty thousandsheep? It’s not you and me, that’s gonethrough these things side by side, thatforgets them in the fair days, Joan, my

little darlin’ gerrel. Them was hard days,and you didn’t desert me and leave me togo alone.”

Joan shook her head, the sob that she hadbeen smothering breaking from her in asharp, riving cry. Tim, feeling that he hadsoftened her, perhaps, laid his hand on hershoulder, and felt her body tremblingunder the emotion that his slow recital ofpast hardships had stirred.

“It’ll not be that you’ll leave me in a holenow, Joan,” he coaxed, stroking her hairback from her forehead, his touch gentleas his heart could be when interest bent itso.

“I gave you that––all those years that othergirls have to themselves, I mean, and allthat work that made me coarse and rough

and kept me down in ignorance––I gaveyou out of my youth till the well of mygiving has gone dry. I can’t give what youask today, Dad; I can’t give you that.”

“Now, Joan, take it easy a bit, draw yourbreath on it, take it easy, gerrel.”

Joan’s chin was up again, the tremor goneout of it, the shudder of sorrow for the lostyears stilled in her beautiful, strong body.Her voice was steady when she spoke:

“I’ll go on working, share and share alikewith you, like I’m doing now, or no share,no nothing, if you want me to, if you needme to, but I can’t––I can’t!”

“I was a hard master over you, my littleJoan,” said Tim, gently, as if torn by thethorn of regret for his past blindness.

“You were, but you didn’t mean to be. Idon’t mind it now, I’m still young enoughto catch up on what I missed––I amcatching up on it, every day.”

“But now when it comes in my way toright it, to make all your life easy to you,Joan, you put your back up like acatamount and tear at the eyes of me likeyou’d put them out.”

“It wouldn’t be that way, Dad––can’t yousee I don’t care for him? If I cared, hewouldn’t have to have any money, and youwouldn’t have to argue with me, to makeme marry him.”

“It’s that stubborn you are!” said Tim, hissoftness freezing over in a breath.

“Let’s not talk about it, Dad,” she

pleaded, turning to him, the tears undriedon her cheeks, the sorrow of the years hehad made slow and heavy for her in hereyes.

“It must be talked about, it must be settled,now and for good, Joan. I have plans foryou, I have great plans, Joan.”

“I don’t want to change it now, I’msatisfied with the arrangement we’vemade on the sheep, Dad. Let me go on likeI have been, studying my lessons andlooking after the sheep with Charley. I’msatisfied the way it is.”

“I’ve planned better things for you, Joan,better from this day forward, and more toyour heart. Mackenzie is all well enoughfor teachin’ a little school of childer, buthe’s not deep enough to be over the likes

of you, Joan. I’m thinkin’ I’ll send you toCheyenne to the sisters’ college at theopenin’ 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 ofa lady, and the twist of the tongue onFrench, and the nice little things you’vemissed here among the sheep, Joandarlin’, and that neither me nor yourmother nor John Mackenzie––good ladthat he is, though mistaken at times, woefulmistaken in his judgment of men––can’tgive you, gerrel.”

“No, I’ll stay here and work my way outwith the sheep,” said she.

Tim was standing at her side, a bit behind

her, and she turned a little more as shedenied him, her head so high she mighthave been listening to the stars. He lookedat her with a deep flush coming into hisbrown face, a frown narrowing hisshrewd eyes.

“Ain’t you that stubborn, now!” he said.

“Yes, I am,” said Joan.

“Then,” said Tim, firing up, the ashes ofdeceit blowing from the fire of hispurpose at once, “you’ll take what I offeror leave what you’ve got! I’ll have nomore shyin’ and shillyin’ out of you, andme with my word passed to old MalcolmReid.”

Joan wheeled round, her face white, frightin her eyes.

“You mean the sheep?” she asked.

“I mean the sheep––just that an’ no less.Do as I’ll have you do, and go on toschool to be put in polish for the wife of agentleman, or give up the flock and theinterest I allowed you in the increase, andgo home and scrape the pots and pans!”

“You’d never do that, Dad––you’d neverbreak your word with me, after all I’vegone through for you, and take my lambsaway from me!”

“I would, just so,” said Tim. But he didnot have the courage to look her in theface as he said it, turning away like astubborn man who had no cause beneathhis feet, but who meant to be stubborn andunjust against it all.

“I don’t believe it!” she said.

“I will so, Joan.”

“Your word to Malcolm Reid means awhole lot to you, but your word to memeans nothing!” Joan spoke in bitterness,her voice vibrating with passion.

“It isn’t the same,” he defended weakly.

“No, you can rob your daughter–––”

“Silence! I’ll not have it!” Tim could lookat her now, having a reason, as he saw it.There was a solid footing to his pretenseat last.

“It’s a cheap way to get a thousandlambs,” said she.

“Then I’ve got ’em cheap!” said Tim, redin his fury. “You’ll flout me and mock me

and throw my offers for your good in myface, and speak disrespectful–––”

“I spoke the truth, no word but the–––”

“I’ll have no more out o’ ye! It’s home yougo, and it’s there you’ll stay till you cantrim your tongue and bend your mind toobey my word!”

“You’ve got no right to take my sheep; youwent into a contract with me, you ought torespect it as much as your word toanybody!”

“You have no sheep, you had none. Homeyou’ll go, this minute, and leave thesheep.”

“I hope they’ll die, every one of them!”

“Silence, ye! Get on that horse and go

home, and I’ll be there after you to tend toyour case, my lady! I’ll have none of thischargin’ me to thievery out of the mouth ofone of my childer––I’ll have none of it!”

“Maybe you’ve got a better name for it––you and old man Reid!” Joan scorned, herface still white with the cold, deep angerof her wrong.

“I’ll tame you, or I’ll break your heart!”said Tim, doubly angry because the chargeshe made struck deep. He glowered at her,mumbling and growling as if consideringimmediate chastisement.

Joan said no more, but her hand trembled,her limbs were weak under her weightwith the collapse of all her hopes, as sheuntied and mounted her horse. The ruin ofher foundations left her in a daze, to which

the surging, throbbing of a sense of deep,humiliating, shameful wrong, added theobscuration of senses, the confusion ofunderstanding. She rode to the top of thehill, and there the recollection ofMackenzie came to her like the sharpconcern for a treasure left behind.

She reined in after crossing the hilltop,and debated a little while on what courseto pursue. But only for a little while.Always she had obeyed her father, underinjunctions feeling and unfeeling, just andunjust. He was not watching to see that sheobeyed him now, knowing well that shewould do as he had commanded.

With bent head, this first trouble andsorrow of her life upon her, and with thefull understanding in her heart that all

which had passed before this day wasnothing but the skimming of light shadowsacross her way, Joan rode homeward. Amile, and the drooping shoulders stiffened;the bent head lifted; Joan looked about herat the sun making the sheeplands glad. Amile, and the short breath of anger diedout of her panting lungs, the long, deepinspiration of restored balance in itsplace; the pale shade left her cold cheeks,where the warm blood came again.

Joan, drawing new hope from the thoughtswhich came winging to her, looked abroadover the sunlit sheeplands, and smiled.

CHAPTER XXII

PHANTOMS OF FEVER

“That was ten or twelve days ago,” Dadexplained, when Mackenzie found himselfblinking understandingly at the sunlightthrough the open end of the sheep-wagonone morning. “You was chawed and beatup till you was hangin’ together bythreads.”

Mackenzie was as weak as a youngmouse. He closed his eyes and laythinking back over those days of deliriumthrough which a gleam of understandingfell only once in a while. Dad evidently

believed that he was well now, from hismanner and speech, although Mackenzieknew that if his life depended on risingand walking from the wagon he would notbe able to redeem it at the price.

“I seem to remember a woman around mea good deal,” he said, not trusting himselfto look at Dad. “It wasn’t––was it–––?”

Mackenzie felt his face flush, and cursedhis weakness, but he could not pronouncethe name that filled his heart.

“Yes, it was Rabbit,” said Dad, catchinghim up without the slightest understandingof his stammering. “She’s been stickin’ toyou night and day. I tell you, John, themIndians 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 very low indeed.

“You won’t see much of her now sinceyou’ve come to your head, I reckon she’llbe passin’ you over to me to look after.She’s shy that way. Yes, sir, any time I gitbit up by man or beast, or shot up orknifed, I’ll take Rabbit ahead of anydoctor you can find. Them Indians theyknow the secrets of it. I wouldn’t be afraidto stand and let a rattlesnake bite me till itfainted if Rabbit was around. She can cureit.”

But Mackenzie knew from the odor of hisbandages that Rabbit was not dependingon her Indian knowledge in his case, ornot entirely so. There was the odor ofcarbolic acid, and he was conscious all

along that his head had been shavedaround the wound in approved surgicalfashion. He reasoned that Rabbit wentabout prepared with the emergencyremedies of civilization, and put it downto her schooling at the Catholic sisters’hands.

“Was there anybody––did anybody elsecome around?” Mackenzie inquired.

“Tim’s been by a couple of times. Oh,well––Joan.”

“Oh, Joan,” said Mackenzie, trying tomake it sound as if he had no concern inJoan at all. But his voice trembled, andlife came bounding up in him again withglad, wild spring.

“She was over the day after you got hurt,

but she ain’t been back,” said Dad, withsuch indifference that he must have taken itfor granted that Mackenzie held notenderness for her, indeed. “I met Charleyyesterday; he told me Joan was overhome. Mary’s out here with him––she’sthe next one to Joan, you know.”

Mackenzie’s day clouded; his sicknessfell over him again, taking the faint newsavor out of life. Joan was indifferent; shedid not care. Then hope came on its whitewings 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 uphopes of ever bein’ left a widower. That

girl’s as healthy as a burro––yes, andshe’ll outlive one, I’ll bet money, and I’veheard of ’em livin’ eighty years down inMexico.”

Dad did not appear to be cognizant ofMackenzie’s weakness. According to theold man’s pathology a man was safe whenhe regained his head out of the delirium offever. All he needed then was cheering up,and Dad did not know of any better way ofdoing that than by talking. So he lethimself go, and Mackenzie shut his eyes tothe hum of the old fellow’s voice, thesound beating on his ears like windagainst closed doors.

Suddenly Dad’s chatter ceased. Thesilence was as welcome as the falling of agale to a man at sea in an open boat.

Mackenzie heard Dad leaving the wagonin cautious haste, and opened his eyes tosee. Rabbit was beside him with a bowlof savory-smelling broth, which sheadministered to him with such gentledeftness that Mackenzie could not helpbelieving Dad had libeled her in his storyof the accident that had left its mark uponher face.

Rabbit would not permit her patient totalk, denying him with uplifted finger andshake of head when he attempted it. Shedid not say a word during her visit,al though her manner was only gentle,neither timid nor shy.

Rabbit was a short woman, turningsomewhat to weight, a little gray in herblack hair, but rather due to trouble than

age, Mackenzie believed. Her skin wasdark, her face bright and intelligent, butstamped with the meekness which is theheritage of women of her race. The burnhad left her marked as Dad had said, thescar much lighter than the original skin,but it was not such a serious disfigurementthat a man would be justified in leavingher for it as Dad had done.

When Rabbit went out she drew amosquito netting over the opening in theback of the wagon. Mackenzie was certainthat Dad had libeled her after that. Therewas not a fly in the wagon to pester him,and he knew that the opening in the frontend had been similarly screened, althoughhe could not turn to see. Grateful toRabbit, with the almost tearful tenderness

that a sick man feels for those who haveministered kindly to his pain, Mackenzielay with his thoughts that first day ofconsciousness after his tempestuousseason of delirium.

They were not pleasant thoughts for a manwhose blood was not yet cool. As theysurged and hammered in his brain hisfever flashed again, burning in his eyeslike a desert wind. Something hadhappened to alienate Joan.

That was the burden of it as the sunmounted with his fever, heating theenclosed wagon until it was an oven.Something had happened to alienate Joan.He did not believe her weak enough,fickle enough, to yield to the allurementsof Reid’s prospects. They must have

slandered him and driven her away withlies. Reid must have slandered him; therewas the stamp of slander in his wide, thinmouth.

It would be many days, it might be weeks,before he could go abroad on the rangeagain to set right whatever wrong hadbeen done him. Then it would be too late.Surely Joan could not take his blunder intoCarlson’s trap in the light of anunpardonable weakness; she was not sosheep-blind as that. Something had beendone outside any act of his own to turn herface and her sympathies away.

Consumed in impatience to be up, anxietyfor the delay, Mackenzie lay the throbbingday through like a disabled enginespending its vain power upon a broken

shaft. Kind Rabbit came frequently to givehim drink, to bathe his forehead, to place acool cloth over his burning eyes. But Daddid not come again. How much better forhis peace if the garrulous old rascal hadnot come at all!

And then with the thought of Joan therecame mingling the vexing wonder of thetrain of violence that had attended him intothe sheeplands. He had come there to be amaster over flocks, not expecting toencounter any unfriendly force save thestern face of nature. He had begun tomuddle and meddle at the outset; he hadcontinued to muddle, if not meddle, to thevery end.

For this would be the end. No sheepmanwould countenance a herder who could

not take care of his flock in summerweather on a bountiful range. His day wasdone in that part of the country so far ashis plans of becoming a sharing herdsmanwent. Earl Reid, a thin, anemic lad freshfrom city life, had come in and made muchmore a figure of a man.

So his fever boiled under the fuel of hishumiliating thoughts. The wagon was abake-oven, but there was no sweat in himto cool his parching skin. He beggedRabbit to let him go and lie under thewagon, where the wind could blow overhim, but she shook her head in denial andpressed him down on the bunk. Then shegave him a drink that had the bitterness ofopium in it, and he threw down hisworrying snarl of thoughts, and slept.

CHAPTER XXIII

CONCERNING MARY

“Yes, I’ve heard tell of sheepmen workin’Swan’s dodge on one another, but I nevertook no stock in it, because I neverbelieved even a sheepman was foolenough to let anybody put a thing like thatover on him.”

“A sheepman oughtn’t to be,” Mackenziesaid, in the bitterness of defeat.

“Swan knew you was an easy feller, andgreen to the ways of them trickysheepmen,” said Dad. “You let him off inthat first fight with a little crack on the

head when you’d ought to ’a’ laid him outfor good, and you let Hector Hall go thattime you took his guns away from him.Folks in here never could understand that;they say it was like a child playin’ with arattlesnake.”

“It was,” Mackenzie agreed.

“Swan thought he could run them sheep ofhis over on you and take away five or sixhundred more than he brought, and I guesshe’d ’a’ done it if it hadn’t been for Reid.”

“It looks that way, Dad. I sure was easy,to fall into his trap the way I did.”

Mackenzie was able to get about again,and was gaining strength rapidly. He andDad were in the shade of some willowsalong the creek, where Mackenzie

stretched in the indolent relaxation ofconvalescence, Dad smoking hismiserable old pipe close at hand.

And miserable is the true word for Dad’spipe, for it was miserable indeed, andmiserable the smell that came out of it,going there full steam on a hot afternoon ofearly autumn. Dad always carefullyreamed out the first speck of carbon thatformed in his pipe, and kept it reamed outwith boring blade of his pocket knife. Hewanted no insulation against nicotine, andthe strength thereof; he was not satisfiedunless the fire burned into the wood, anddrew the infiltrations of strong juicetherefrom. When his charge of tobaccoburned out, and the fire came down to thisfrying, sizzling abomination of smells at

last, Dad beamed, enjoying it as a sort ofdessert to a delightful repast of strongsmoke.

Dad was enjoying his domestic felicity tothe full these days of Mackenzie’sconvalescence. Rabbit was out with thesheep, being needed no longer to attendthe patient, leaving Dad to idle as hepleased. His regret for the one-eyedwidow seemed to have passed, leaving noscar behind.

“Tim don’t take no stock in it that Swanplanned before to do you out of a lot ofyour sheep. He was by here this morningwhile you was wanderin’ aroundsomewhere.”

“He was by, was he?”

“Yeah; he was over to see Reid––he’ssent him a new wagon over there. Timsays you and Swan must both ’a’ beenasleep and let the two bands straytogether, and of course it was human forSwan to want to take away more than hebrought. Well, it was sheepman, anyhow,if it wasn’t human.”

“Did Sullivan say that?”

“No, that’s what I say. I know ’em; I know’em to the bone. Reid knew how manysheep him and you had, and he stuck outfor ’em like a little man. More to thatfeller than I ever thought he had in him.”

“Yes,” Mackenzie agreed. He laystretched on his back, squinting at thecalm-weather clouds.

“Yeah; Tim says both of you fellers must’a’ been asleep.”

“I suppose he’ll fire me when he seesme.”

“No, I don’t reckon he will. Tim takes itas a kind of a joke, and he’s as proud asall git-out of the way Reid stacked up. Ifthat boy hadn’t happened up when he did,Swan he’d ’a’ soaked you another onewith that gun of yourn and put you out forgood. They say that kid waltzed Swanaround there and made him step like hewas standin’ on a red-hot stove.”

“Did anybody see him doing it?”

“No, I don’t reckon anybody did. But hemust ’a’ done it, all right, Swan didn’t gita head of sheep that didn’t belong to him.”

“It’s funny how Reid arrived on thesecond,” Mackenzie said, reflecting overit as a thing he had pondered before.

“Well, it’s natural you’d feel a littlejealous of him, John––most any fellerwould. But I don’t think he had any handin it with Swan to run him in on you, ifthat’s what you’re drivin’ at.”

“It never crossed my mind,” saidMackenzie, but not with his usual regardfor the truth.

“I don’t like him, and I never did like him,but you’ve got to hand it to him for gritand 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 backof his head, smoothed his long, bright hair.

“I don’t reckon you knew when you wasteachin’ Joan you was goin’ to all thattrouble for that feller,” he said.

“Sullivan told me him and old man Reidhad made an agreement concerning theyoung folks,” Mackenzie returned, asickness of dread over him for what hebelieved he was about to hear.

“Oh, Tim told you, did he? Never saidnothin’ to me about it till this mornin’.He’s goin’ to send Joan off to the sisters’school down at Cheyenne.”

Mackenzie sat up, saying nothing for agood while. He sat looking at the ground,

buried in his thoughts as deep as a grave.Dad turned curious eyes upon him, but yetnot eyes which probed to the secret of hisheart or weighed his loss.

“I guess I didn’t––couldn’t teach herenough to keep her here,” Mackenzie said.

“You could teach her a danged sight morethan she could remember. I think Tim andher had a spat, but I’m only guessin’ fromwhat Charley said. Reid was at the bottomof it, I’ll bet a purty. That feller wasafraid you and Joan might git to holdin’hands out here on the range so muchtogether, heads a touchin’ over thembooks.”

Mackenzie heard the old man as the wind.No, he had not taught Joan enough to keepher in the sheeplands; she had not read

deeply enough into that lesson which heonce spoke of as the easiest to learn andthe hardest to forget. Joan’s desire for lifein the busy places had overbalanced heraffection for him. Spat or no spat, shewould have come to see him more thanonce in his desperate struggle againstdeath if she had cared.

He could not blame her. There was notmuch in a man who had made a failure ofeven sheepherding to bind a maid to himagainst the allurements of the world thathad been beckoning her so long.

“Tim said he’d be around to see you latethis evening or tomorrow. He’s went overto see how Mary and Charley’re makin’out, keepin’ his eye on ’em like hesuspicioned they might kill a lamb once in

a while to go with their canned beans.”

“All right,” said Mackenzie, abstractedly.

Dad looked at him with something likescorn for his inattention to such anengrossing subject. Mackenzie was notlooking his way; his thoughts seemed to bea thousand leagues from Tim Sullivan’srange and the lambs on it, let them bealive or slaughtered to go with cannedbeans.

But Joan would come back to thesheeplands, as she said everybody cameback to them who once had lived in theirsilences and breathed their wide freedom.She would come back, not lost to him, butregained, her lesson learned, not to goaway with that youth who wore the brandof old sins on his face. So hope came to

lift him and assure him, just when he feltthe somber cloud of the lonesomenessbeginning to engulf his soul.

“I know Tim don’t like it, but me andRabbit butcher lambs right along, andwe’ll keep on doin’ it as long as we runsheep. A man’s got to have somethingbesides the grub he gits out of tin cans.That ain’t no life.”

“You’re right, Dad. I’d been in a hole onthe side of some hill before now if ithadn’t been for the broth and lamb stewRabbit fed me. There’s nothing like it.”

“You right they ain’t!” said Dad,forgetting Mackenzie’s lapse of a littlewhile before. “I save the hides and turn’em over to him, and he ain’t got no kick.If I was them children I’d butcher me a

lamb once a week, anyhow. But maybethey don’t like it––I don’t know. I’veknown sheepmen that couldn’t go mutton,never tasted it from one year to another.May be the smell of sheep when you git alot of ’em in a shearin’ pen and let ’emstand around for a day or two.”

But what had they told Joan that she wouldgo away without a word, leaving him in asickness from which he might never haveturned again? Something had been done toalienate her, some crafty libel had beenpoured into her ears. Let that be as itmight, Joan would come back, and hewould wait in the sheeplands for her, andtake her by the hand and clear away hertroubled doubts. The comfort of thisthought would drive the lonesomeness

away.

He would wait. If not in Tim Sullivan’shire, then with a little flock of his own,independent of the lords of sheep. Hewould rather remain with Sullivan, havingmore to prove now of his fitness tobecome a flockmaster than at thebeginning. Sullivan’s doubt of him wouldhave increased; the scorn which he couldnot quite cover before would be open nowand expressed. They had no use in thesheeplands for a man who fought and lost.They would respect him more if herefused to fight at all.

Dad was still talking, rubbing his fuzzychin with reflective hand, looking alongthe hillside to where Rabbit stood watchover the sheep.

“Tim wanted to buy that big yellow colliefrom Rabbit,” he said. “Offered her eightydollars. Might as well try to buy me fromthat woman!”

“I expect she’d sell you quicker than shewould the collie, Dad.”

“Wish she would sell that dang animal, henever has made friends with me. The otherone and me we git along all right, but thatfeller he’s been educated on the scent ofthat old vest, and he’ll be my enemy to mylast day.”

“You’re a lucky man to have a wife likeRabbit, anyhow, dog or no dog. It’s hardfor me to believe she ever took a longswig out of a whisky jug, Dad.”

“Well, sir, me and Rabbit was disputin’

about that a day or so ago. Funny how Iseem to ’a’ got mixed up on that, but Iguess it wasn’t Rabbit that used to pull myjug too hard. That must ’a’ been aMexican woman I was married to onetime down by El Paso.”

“I’ll bet money it was the Mexicanwoman. 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, almostready to take the convalescent’sprerogative and quarrel with his bestfriend.

“What’s the straight of it, you old hide-bound sinner?”

Dad changed hands on his chin, fingeringhis beard with scraping noise, eyesdowncast as if a little ashamed.

“I guess it was me that took a snort toomany out of the jug that day, John,” heconfessed.

“Of course it was. And Rabbit tripped andfell into the tub trying to save you from it,did she?”

“Well, John, them fellers said that wasabout the straight of it.”

“You ought to be hung for running awayfrom her, you old hard-shelledscoundrel!”

Dad took it in silence, and sat rubbing itinto his beard like a liniment. After awhile he rose, squinted his eye up at the

sun with a quick turn of his head like achicken.

“I reckon every man’s done something heought to be hung for,” he said.

That ended it. Dad went off to beginsupper, there being potatoes to cook.Sullivan had sent a sack of that unusualprovender out to camp to help Mackenzieget his strength back in a hurry, he said.

Tim himself put in his appearance at campa little later in the day, when the scent oflamb stew that Dad had in the kettle wasstreaming over the hills. Tim could notresist it, for it was seasoned with wildonions and herbs, and between the four ofthem they left the pot as clean as JackSpratt’s platter, the dogs making a desserton the bones.

Dad and Rabbit went away presently toassemble the sheep for the night, and Timlet his Irish tongue wag as it would. Hewas in lively and generous mood, makinga joke of the mingling of the flocks whichhad come so dearly to Mackenzie’saccount. He bore himself like a man whohad gained something, indeed, and thatwas the interpretation put on it byMackenzie.

Tim led up to what he had come to discusspresently, beaming with stew andsatisfaction when he spoke of Joan.

“Of course you understand, John, I don’twant you to think it was any slam on youthat I took Joan off the range and made herstop takin’ her book lessons from you.That girl got too fresh with me, denyin’ my

authority to marry her to the man I’vepicked.”

Mackenzie nodded, a great warmth ofunderstanding glowing in his breast.

“But I don’t want you to feel that it wasany reflection on your ability as a teacher,you understand, John; I don’t want you tolook at it that way at all.”

“Not at all,” Mackenzie echoed, quitesincerely.

“You could ’a’ had her, for all thedifference it was to me, if I hadn’t madethat deal with Reid. A man’s got to stickto his word, you know, lad, and not have itthwarted by any little bobbin of a girl. I’das soon you’d have one of my girls as anyman I know, John.”

“Thanks.”

“Of course I could see how it might turnout between you and Joan if she kept onridin’ over to have lessons from you everyday. You can’t blame Earl if he saw it thesame way, lad.”

“She isn’t his yet,” said Mackenzieconfidently.

“Now look here, John”––Sullivan spokewith a certain sharpness, a certainhardness of dictation in his tone, “you’djust as well stand out of it and let Earlhave her.”

Mackenzie’s heart swung so high itseemed to brush the early stars. It wascertain now that Joan had not gone homewithout a fight, and that she had not

remained there throughout his recoveryfrom his wounds without telling protest.More confidently than before he repeated:

“She isn’t his yet!”

“She’ll never get a sheep from me if shemarries any other man––not one loneewe!”

“How much do you value her in sheep?”Mackenzie inquired.

“She’ll get half a million dollars or morewith Earl. It would take a lot of sheep toamount to half a million, John.”

“Yes,” said Mackenzie, with theindifference of a man who did not haveany further interest in the case, seeinghimself outbid. “That’s higher than I’llever be able to go. All right; let him have

her.” But beneath his breath he added thecondition: “If he can get her.”

“That’s the spirit I like to see a manshow!” Tim commended. “I don’t blame aman for marryin’ into a sheep ranch if hecan––I call him smart––and I’d just assoon you as any man’d marry one of mygirls, as I said, John. But you know, lad, aman can’t have them that’s sealed, as theMormons say.”

“You’re right,” Mackenzie agreed, and themore heartily because it was sincere. If hegrinned a little to himself, Tim did notnote it in the dusk.

“Now, there’s my Mary; she’s seventeen;she’ll be a woman in three years more,and she’ll make two of Joan when she fillsout. My Mary would make the fine wife

for a lad like you, John, and I’ll give youfive thousand sheep the day you marryher.”

“All right; the day I marry Mary I’ll claimfive thousand sheep.”

Mackenzie said it so quickly, sopositively, that Tim glowed and beamedas never before. He slapped the simpletonof a schoolmaster who had come into thesheeplands to be a great sheepman on theback with hearty hand, believing he hadswallowed hook and all.

“Done! The day you marry Mary you’llhave your five thousand sheep along wi’her! I pass you my word, and it goes.”

They shook hands on it, Mackenzie assolemn as though making a covenant in

truth.

“The day I marry Mary,” said he.

“It’ll be three years before she’s oldenough to take up the weight of carryin’babies, and of course you understandyou’ll have to wait on her, lad. A mancan’t jump into these things the way hebuys a horse.”

“Oh, sure.”

“You go right on workin’ for me like youare,” pursued Tim, drunk on his bargain ashe thought it to be, “drawin’ your pay likeany hand, without favors asked or given,takin’ the knocks as they come to you, inweather good and bad. That’ll be a betterway than goin’ in shares on a band nextspring like we talked; it’ll be better for

you, lad; better for you and Mary.”

“All right,” Mackenzie assented.

“I’m thinkin’ only of your own interests,you see, lad, the same as if you was myson.”

Tim patted Mackenzie’s shoulder again,doubtless warm to the bottom of hissheep-blind heart over the prospect of ahand to serve him three years who wouldgo break-neck and hell-for-leather, notcounting consequences in his blind andsimple way, or weather or hardships ofany kind. For there was Mary, and therewere five thousand sheep. As for Joan,she was out of Tim’s reckoning anylonger. He had a new Jacob on the line,and he was going to play him for all hewas worth.

“All right; I’ve got a lot to learn yet,”Mackenzie agreed.

“You have, you have that,” said Tim withfatherly tenderness, “and you’ll learn itlike a book. I always said from the dayyou come you had in you the makin’ of asheepman. Some are quick and some areslow, but the longer it takes to learn theharder it sticks. It’s been that way wi’me.”

“That’s the rule of the world, they say.”

“It is; it is so. And you can put up a goodfight, even though you may not alwayshold your own; you’ll be the lad to wadethrough it wi’ your head up and themornin’ light on your face. Sure you will,boy. I’ll be tellin’ Mary.”

“I’d wait a while,” Mackenzie said,gently, as a man who was very soft in hisheart, indeed. “I’d rather we’d grow intoit, you know, easy, by gentle stages.”

“Right you are, lad, right you are. Leaveyoung hearts to find their own way––theycan’t miss it if there’s nobody betweenthem. I’ll say no word to Mary at all, butyou have leave to go and see her as oftenas you like, lad, and the sooner you beginthe better, to catch her while she’s young.How’s your hand?”

“Well enough.”

“When you think you’re able, I’ll put youback with the sheep you had. I’ll be takin’Reid over to the ranch to put him in chargeof the hospital band.”

“I’m able to handle them now, I think.”

“But take your time, take it easy. Reid getson with Swan, bein’ more experiencedwith men than you, I guess. Well, aschoolteacher don’t meet men the wayother people do; he’s shut up with thechilder all the day, and he gets so hemeasures men by them. That won’t do onthe sheep range, lad. But I guess you’refindin’ it out.”

“I’m learning a little, right along.”

“Yes, you’ve got the makin’ of asheepman in you; I said you had it in youthe first time I put my eyes on your face.Well, I’ll be leavin’ you now, lad. Andremember the bargain about my Mary.You’ll be a sheepman in your own waythe day you marry her. When a man’s

marryin’ a sheep ranch what difference isit to him whether it’s a Mary or a Joan?”

“No difference––when he’s marrying asheep ranch,” Mackenzie returned.

CHAPTER XXIV

MORE ABOUT MARY

Mackenzie took Tim at his word two daysafter their interview, and went visitingMary. He made the journey across to herrange more to try his legs than to satisfyhis curiosity concerning the substitute forJoan so cunningly offered by Tim in hisLaban-like way. He was pleased to findthat his legs bore him with almost theiraccustomed vigor, and surprised to see thehills beginning to show the yellow bloomsof autumn. His hurts in that last encounterwith Swan Carlson and his dogs had

bound him in camp for three weeks.

Mary was a smiling, talkative, fair-hairedgirl, bearing the foundation of a generouswoman. She had none of the shyness abouther that might be expected in a lass whoseworld had been the sheep range, and thisMackenzie put down to the fact of hersuperior social position, as fixed by thesize of Tim Sullivan’s house.

Conscious of this eminence above thosewho dwelt in sheep-wagons or log housesby the creek-sides, Tim’s girls walked outinto their world with assurance. Tim haddone that much for them in rearing hismansion on the hilltop, no matter what hehad denied them of educationalrefinements. Joan had gone hungry on thisdistinction; she had developed the

bitterness that comes from the seeds ofloneliness. This was lacking in Mary, whowas all smiles, pink and white in spite ofsheeplands winds and suns. Mary wasready to laugh with anybody or atanybody, and hop a horse for a twenty-mile ride to a dance any night you mightname.

Mackenzie made friends with her infifteen minutes, and had learned at the endof half an hour that friend was all he mightever hope to be even if he had come withany warmer notions in his breast. Marywas engaged to be married. She told himso, as one friend to another, pledging himto secrecy, showing a little ring on a whiteribbon about her neck. Her Corydon was asheepman’s son who lived beyond the

Sullivan ranch, and could dance like abutterfly and sing songs to the banjo in away to melt the heart of any maid. SoMary said, but in her own way, withblushes, and wide, serious eyes.

Mackenzie liked Mary from the firstingenuous word, and promised to hold hersecret and help her to happiness in anyway that a man might lift an honorablehand. And he smiled when he recalledTim Sullivan’s word about catching themyoung. Surely a man had to be stirringearly in the day to catch them in thesheeplands. Youth would look out for itsown there, as elsewhere. Tim Sullivanwas right about it there. He was wiserthan he knew.

Mary was dressed as neatly as Joan

always dressed for her work with thesheep. And she wore a little black crucifixabout her neck on another ribbon whichshe had no need to conceal. When shetouched it she smiled and smiled, and notfor the comfort of the little cross,Mackenzie understood, but in tendernessfor what lay beneath it, and for theshepherd lad who gave it. There was abeauty in it for him that made the glad daybrighter.

This fresh, sprightly generation wouldredeem the sheeplands, and change thebusiness of growing sheep, he said. Theisolation would go out of that life; runningsheep would be more like a business thana penance spent in heartache andloneliness. The world could not come

there, of course. It had no business there;it should not come. But they would go toit, those young hearts, behold its wonders,read its weaknesses, and return. And therewould be no more straining of the heart inlonesomeness such as Joan had borne, andno more discontent to be away.

“I hoped you’d marry Joan,” said Mary,with a sympathetic little sigh. “I don’t likeEarl Reid.”

“Mary?” said Mackenzie. Mary looked upinquiringly. “Can you keep a secret forme, Mary?”

“Try me, John.”

“I am going to marry Joan.”

“Oh, you’ve got it all settled? Did Joanwear your ring when she went home?”

“No, she didn’t wear my ring, Mary, butshe would have worn it if I’d seen herbefore 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, andshe had a half-interest in at least athousand head.”

“I didn’t know that, but it will not makeany difference to Joan and me. But whyhasn’t she been over to see me, Mary?”

“Oh, dad’s sore at her because she put herfoot down flat when she heard it was fixedfor her to marry Earl. She told dad to takehis sheep and go to the devil––she wasgoing to go away and work somewhereelse. He made her go home and stay therelike a rabbit in a box––wouldn’t let her

have a horse.”

“Of course; I might have known it. Iwonder if she knows I’m up?”

“She knows, all right. Charley slips wordto her.”

“Charley’s a good fellow, and so areyou,” Mackenzie said, giving Mary hishand.

“You’ll get her, and it’s all right,” Marydeclared, in great confidence. “It’ll takemore than bread and water to tame Joan.”

“Is that all they’re giving her?”

“That’s dad’s idea of punishment––he’sput most of us on bread and water onetime or another. But mother has ideas ofher own what a kid ought to have to eat.”

Mary smiled over the recollection, andMackenzie joined her. Joan would notgrow thin with that mother on the job.

They talked over the prospects ahead ofJoan and himself in the most comfortableway, leaving nothing unsaid that hopecould devise or courage suggest. A longtime Mackenzie remained with his littlesister, who would have been dear to himfor her own sweet sake if she had not beendearer because of her blood-tie to Joan.When he was leaving, he said:

“If anybody gets curious about my comingover to see you, Mary, you might let themthink I’m making love to you. It wouldhelp both of us.”

Mary turned her eyes without moving herhead, looking at him across her nose in the

arch way she had, and smiled with a deepknowingness.

“Not so bad!” said she.

They let it go at that, understanding eachother very well indeed.

Mackenzie returned to Dad’s campthinking that the way to becoming aflockmaster was a checkered one, andfilled with more adventures, harsh andgentle, than he ever had believed belongedto his apportionment in life. But he couldnot blame Tim Sullivan for placing Reidabove him in rating on account of theencounters they had shared, or for bendingdown a bit in his manner, or taking him fora soft one who could be led into longlabors on the promise of an uncertainreward.

Truly, he had been only second best all theway through, save for that “lucky blow,”as Tim called it, that had laid Swan out inthe first battle. Now Swan and he werequits, a blow on each side, nobody debtorany more, and Reid was away ahead ofanybody who had figured in the violencethat Mackenzie had brought into thesheeplands with him as an unwelcomestranger lets in a gust of wind on a winternight.

In spite of all this, the vocation ofsheepman never appeared so full ofattractive possibilities to Mackenzie as itlooked that hour. All his old calculationswere revived, his first determinationproved to him how deeply it had takenroot. He had come into the sheep country

to be a flockmaster, and a flockmaster hewould be. Because he was fighting hisway up to it only confirmed him in thebelief that he was following a destinedcourse, and that he should cut a betterfigure in the end, somehow, than he hadmade at the beginning.

Tim Sullivan thought him simple; helooked at him with undisguised humor inhis eyes, not taking the trouble to turn hisback when he laughed. And they had takenJoan away out of his hands, like a gold-piece snatched from a child. But that wasmore to his credit than his disgrace, for itproved that they feared him more than theyscorned him, let them laugh as they might.

But it was time for him to begin putting thecredits over on the other side of the book.

Mackenzie took it up with Dad Frazer thatevening, Rabbit sitting by in her quiet waywith a nod and a smile now and then whendirectly addressed.

“I don’t think you’re able to go over thereand let that feller off,” Dad objected.“You can’t tell about Swan; he may comeround lookin’ for more trouble, and younot half the man you was before him andthat dog chawed you up that way.”

“I think I’ll make out, Dad. I’ll keep myeyes open this time, anyhow.”

“He may not be able to slip up on you anymore, but if he crowds a fuss where’ll yoube at, with that hand hardly able to hold agun?”

“It will be different this time if he does.

I’m going back to the sheep in themorning, Dad. I’ve got to get busy, andkeep busy if I ever make good at thisgame.”

Dad grunted around his pipestem, hischarge being burned down to the wood,and the savor too sweet on his tongue tolose even a whiff by giving room for aword in the door of his mouth. Presentlythe fire fried and blubbered down in thepipe to the last atrocious smell, and therefollowed the noise of more strong twist-tobacco being milled between the oldshepherd’s rasping palms. Rabbit toddledoff to bed without a word; Dad put amatch to his new charge, the light makinghim blink, discovering his curiouslysheared face with its picturesque features

strong, its weakness under the shadows.

“What did you think of Mary?” heinquired, free to discuss the ladies, nowRabbit 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 growup to a woman that suits my eye. Youcould do worse than set your cap for thatlittle lady, it seems to me, John.”

“Any man could. She’s got a lively eye,and wise head, too, if I’m not away off.”

“She looks soft when you first glance her,but she’s as deep as a well. Mary ain’t thebuild of a girl that fools a man and throwshim down. Now, you take Joan, a kind of ahigh-headed touch-me-not, with that

gingerbread hair and them eyes that don’tever seem to be in fifty-five mile of youwhen you’re talkin’ to her. I tell you, theman that marries her’s got trouble up hissleeve. He’ll wake up some morning andfind her gone off with some other man.”

“What makes you think that, Dad?”

“Not satisfied with what she’s got, alwayslookin’ off over the hill like a breachycow calculatin’ on how much better thegrazin’d be if she could hop the fence andg o tearin’ off over there. Joan ain’t thekind that settles down to nuss babies andmake a man a home. Mary is. That’s thedifference between them two girls.”

“Maybe you’re right about it, Dad––Iexpect you are. You ought to know womenif any man does.”

“Well, neither one of ’em ain’t a womanin the full meanin’ of the word,” Dadreflected, “but they’ve got the marks on’em of what they’ll turn out to be. The manthat marries Mary he’ll play safe; thefeller that gits Joan takes on a gamble. Ifshe ever does marry Reid he’ll not keepher seven months. Shucks! I married a red-headed woman one time back inOklahomey, and that blame woman run offwith a horse-doctor inside of threemonths. I never did hear tell of that foolwoman any more.”

“I don’t agree with you on the way you’vegot Joan sized up, no difference if yourwife did run off with a horse-doctor. Herhair ain’t red, anyway.”

“Might as well be. You ain’t so much of a

hand at readin’ people, anyhow, John;before you marry you ought to see afortune-teller and have your hand read.You got away off on Reid, holdin’ up forhim agin’ my judgment when he first comehere on the range––don’t you remember?”

“I didn’t want to pass judgment on him inadvance; that was all, Dad.”

“Course, you couldn’t be expected toknow men and women like us fellers that’sbatted around among ’em all our lives,and you shut up with a houseful of kidsteachin’ ’em cipherin’ and spellin’. Inever did see a schoolteacher in my life,man or woman, that you couldn’t take onthe blind side and beat out of their teeth,not meanin’ any disrespect to you or anyof ’em, John.”

“Oh, sure not. I understand what youmean.”

“I mean you’re too trustful, too easy totake folks at their word. You’re kids inyour head-works, and you always will be.I advise you strong, John, to havesomebody read your hand.”

“Even before marrying Mary?”

“We-el-l, you might be safe in marryin’Mary. If I’d ’a’ had my hand read lastspring before I come up here to this rangeI bet I’d ’a’ missed the trap I stumbledinto. I’d ’a’ been warned to look out for adark woman, like I was warned oncebefore, and I bet you a dime I’d ’a’ lookedout, too! Oh, well, it’s too late now. Iguess I was fated.”

“Everybody’s fated; we’re all branded.”

“I’ve heard it said, and I’m beginnin’ tobelieve it. Well, I don’t know as I’d ’a’been any better off if I’d ’a’ got thatwidow-lady. Rabbit ain’t so bad. She cantake 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 theworld. It was a lucky day for you whenRabbit found you and saved you from theFour Corners widow.”

“Yes, I expect that woman she’d ’a’worked me purty hard––she had a drivin’eye. But a feller’s got one consolation in acase where his woman ribs him a little toohard; the road’s always open for him toleave, and a woman’s nearly always asglad to see a man go as he is to git away.”

“There’s no reason why it shouldn’t workboth ways. But fashions are changing,Dad; they go to the divorce courts now.”

“That costs too much, and it’s too slow.Walk out and leave the door standin’ openafter you; that’s always been my way.They keep a lookin’ for you to come backfor a month or two; then they marry someother man. Well, all of ’em but Rabbit, Ireckon.”

“She was the one that remembered.”

“That woman sure is some on theremember, John. Well, I ought ’a’ had myhand read. A man’s a fool to start anythingwithout havin’ it done.”

Dad nursed his regret in silence, his facedim in the starlight. Mackenzie was off

with his own thoughts; they might havebeen miles apart instead of two yards, thequiet of the sheeplands around them. ThenDad:

“So you’re thinkin’ of Mary, are you,John?”

Mackenzie laughed a little, like anembarrassed lover.

“Well, I’ve got my eye on her,” he said.

“No gamble about Mary,” Dad said, indeep earnestness. “Give her a couple ofyears to fill out and widen in and you’llhave a girl that’ll do any man’s eyes goodto see. I thought for a while you had somenotions about Joan, and I’m glad to seeyou’ve changed your mind. Joan’s toosharp for a trustin’ feller like you. She’d

run off with some wool-buyer beforeyou’d been married a year.”

CHAPTER XXV

ONE MAN’S JOKE

Mackenzie went across the hills nextmorning to relieve Reid of his watch overthe sheep, feeling almost as simple as Dadand the rest of them believed him to be.He was too easy, he had been too easy allalong. If he had beaten Hector Hall into ablue lump that day he sent him homewithout his guns; if he had pulled hisweapon at Swan Carlson’s firstappearance when the giant Swede drovehis flock around the hill that day, and put abullet between his eyes, Tim Sullivan and

the rest of them would have held him inhigher esteem.

Reid would have held him in greaterrespect for it, also, and it might not haveturned out so badly for Joan. He wonderedhow Reid would receive him, and whetherthey would part in no greaterunfriendliness than at present.

Reid was not with the sheep whenMackenzie arrived where they fed. Theflock was widely scattered, as if theshepherd had been gone a long time, thedogs seemingly indifferent to what befell,showing a spirit of insubordination andlaziness when Mackenzie set them abouttheir work. Mackenzie spent the morninggetting the flock together, noting itsdiminished numbers with quickly

calculating eye.

Reid must have been leaving the sheeppretty much to themselves for the wolvesto take that heavy toll. Strange thatSullivan had not noticed it and put atrustworthy herder in charge. But Sullivanwas more than a little afraid to showhimself for long on that part of his lease,and perhaps had not taken the time to runhis eye over the sheep. It was a matter tobe laid before his attention at once.Mackenzie did not want this loss chargedagainst him as another example of hisunfitness to become a master over sheepon the profit-sharing plan.

It was past noon when Reid returned,coming riding from Swan Carlson’s range.He came only near enough to Mackenzie

to see who it was, galloping on to thewagon. There he unsaddled his horse andturned it to graze, setting aboutimmediately to get his dinner. Mackenziewaited for a summons when the meal wasready, but received none. Presently hesaw that Reid had no intention of callinghim in, for he was sitting down selfishlyalone.

Mackenzie determined there was not goingto be any avoidance on his part. Ifunpleasantness must rise between themReid would be the one to set it stewing,and it looked from a distance as if thiswere his intention. Mackenzie went tocamp, his coat on his arm.

Reid had finished his dinner whenMackenzie arrived. He was sitting in the

shade of some low bushes, his hat on theground, smoking a cigarette. He looked upat the sound of Mackenzie’s approach,smiling a little, waving his cigarette ingreeting.

“Hello, Jacob,” he said.

Mackenzie felt the hot blood rush to hisface, but choked down whatever hotwords rose with it. But he could notsuppress the indignation, the surprise, thatcame with the derisive hail. It seemed thatthe range, vast, silent, selfish, melancholyas it was, could not keep a secret. Whatdid Reid know about any Jacob andRachel romance? How had he learned ofthat?

“How’re you makin’ it, Earl?” Mackenziereturned, pleasantly enough. And to

himself: “He listened, the scoundrel––sneaked up on us and heard it all!”

“Oh, well enough,” said Reid, coughinghuskily.

If well enough, a little more of it would dofor him, Mackenzie thought, noting withsurprise the change that had come overReid since they last met. The improvementthat had begun in him during his firstweeks on the range had not continued.Opposed to it, a decline appeared to havefastened upon him, making his flaccidcheeks thinner, his weary eyes more tired,his slight frame lighter by many pounds.Only his voice was unchanged. That washearty and quick, resonant of enjoyment inlife and a keenness in the pursuits of itspleasures. Reid’s voice was his most

valuable possession, Mackenzie knew; itwas the vehicle that had carried him intothe graces of many transitory friends.

“I thought Tim had sent some old taller-heel over to let me off––I didn’t know itwas you,” said Reid, lying with perfectease.

“Taller-heel enough, I guess,” Mackenziereturned, detached and inattentive as itseemed, his mind fixed on dinner.

“I didn’t think you’d be able to get out sosoon from what Dad told me. Been havin’some trouble with your hand?”

“It’s all right now.” Mackenzie wasmaking use of it to shake the coffeepot,only to find that Reid had drained it to thegrounds.

“If I’d recognized you, Jacob, I’d made adouble allowance,” Reid said, lifting thecorner of his big, unfeeling mouth in atwitching grin.

“You might cut out that Jacob stuff,wherever you got it,” Mackenzie told him,not much interested in it, apparently.

“Can’t you take a joke, Mackenzie?” Reidmade the inquiry in surprised voice, witha well-simulated inflection of injury.

“But I don’t want it rubbed in, Reid.”

Reid grunted, expressive of derision andcontempt, smoking on in silence whileMackenzie threw himself together a hastymeal. Frequently Reid coughed, alwayscupping his hand before his mouth as if toconceal from himself as well as others the

portentous harshness of the sound.

“Did Sullivan send you over?” Reidinquired at last.

“He said for me to come when I was able,but he didn’t set any time. I concluded Iwas 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 howit’s going to be comfortable with me andyou in camp together.”

“The road’s open, Earl.”

“I wish it was open out of this damnedcountry!” Reid complained. In his voiceMackenzie read the rankling discontent ofhis soul, wearing itself out there in the

freedom that to him was not free, chafingand longing and fretting his heart away asthough the distant hills were the walls of aprison, the far horizon its bars.

“Sullivan wants you over at the ranch,”Mackenzie told him, moved to pityingkindness for him, although he knew that itwas wasted and undeserved.

“I’d rather stay over here, I’d rather hearthe coyotes howl than that pack ofSullivan kids. That’s one-hell of a familyfor a man to have to marry into,Mackenzie.”

“I’ve seen men marry into worse,”Mackenzie said.

Reid got up in morose impatience, flingingaway his cigarette, went to the wagon,

looked in, slammed the little canvas doorwith its mica window shut with a bang,and turned back.

There seemed little of the carelessness,the easy spirit that had made him soadaptable at first to his surroundings,which Reid had brought with him into thesheeplands left in him now. He was sullenand downcast, consumed by the gnawingdesire to be away out of his prison.Mackenzie studied him furtively as hecompounded his coffee and set it to boilon the little fire, thinking that it requiredmore fortitude, indeed, to live out asentence such as Reid faced in the openthan behind a lock. Here, the call to beaway was always before a man; theleagues of freedom stretched out before

his eyes. It required some holding in on aman’s part to restrain his feet from takingthe untrammeled way to liberty under suchconditions, more than he would havebelieved Reid capable of, more than heexpected him to be equal to much longer.

Reid came slowly over to where he hadleft his hat, took it up, and stood looking atit as if he had found some strange plant orunusual flower, turning it and regarding itfrom all sides. It was such strangebehavior that Mackenzie kept his eye onhim, believing that the solitude anddiscontent had strained his mind.

Presently Reid put the hat on his head,came over to Mackenzie’s fire, andsquatted near it on his heels, although thesun was broiling hot and the flare of the

ardent little blaze was scorching to hisface. So he sat, silent as an Indian, lookingwith fixed eyes at the fire, whileMackenzie fried his bacon and warmed acan of succotash in the pan. WhenMackenzie began to eat, Reid drew backfrom the fire to make another cigarette.

“But will it pay a man,” he saidruminatively, as if turning again a subjectlong discussed with himself, “to put inthree years at this just to get out of workall the rest of his life? That’s all it comesto, even if I can keep the old man’s moneyfrom sifting through my hands like drysand on a windy day. The question is, willit pay a man to take the chance?”

Reid did not turn his eyes towardMackenzie as he argued thus with himself,

nor bring his face about to give hiscompanion a full look into it. He satstaring across the mighty temptation thatlay spread, league on league before him,his sharp countenance sharper for thewasting it had borne since Mackenzie sawhim last, his chin up, his neck stretched asif he leaped the barriers of his discontentand rode away.

“It’s a long shot, Mackenzie,” he said,turning as he spoke, his face set in a castof suffering that brought again toMackenzie a sweep of pity which he knewto be a tribute undeserved. “I made a jokeabout selling out to you once, Mackenzie;but it isn’t a thing a man can joke aboutright along.”

“I’m glad it was only a joke, Earl.”

“Sure it was a joke.”

Reid spoke with much of his old lightness,coming out of his brooding like a manstepping into the sun. He laughed, pullinghis hat down on the bridge of his nose inthe peculiar way he had of wearing it. Alittle while he sat; then stretched himselfback at ease on his elbow, drooling smokethrough his nose in saturnine enjoyment.

“Sullivan will double-cross you in theend, Jack; he’ll not even give you Mary,”Reid said, speaking lazily, neitherderision nor banter in his way.

“Maybe,” Mackenzie returnedindifferently.

“He’d double-cross me after I’d put inthree years runnin’ his damned sheep if it

wasn’t for the old man’s money. TimSullivan would pick dimes off a red-hotgriddle in hell as long as the devil wouldstand by and heat them. He’s usin’ hisgirls for bait to draw greenhorns and worktheir fool heads off on promises. A manthat would do that would sell his wife.”

Mackenzie made no comment. He wasthrough his dinner and was filling hispipe, mixing some of Dad Frazer’s highlyrecommended twist with his own mildleaf to give it a kick.

“He played you into the game with Joanfor a bait, and then I got shipped out hereand spoiled that,” said Reid. “Now he’sstringin’ you on for Mary. If you’re aswise a guy as I take you to be, Jack, you’llcut this dump and strike out in business for

yourself. There’s a feller over east ofCarlson wants to sell out––you can gethim on the run.”

“I couldn’t buy one side of a sheep,”Mackenzie replied, wondering why thissudden streak of friendly chatter.

Mackenzie ground Dad’s twist in hispalm, poured a charge of his pale mixtureinto it, ground them again together underthe heel of his fist, Reid looking on withlanguid eyes, hat down on his nose.

“What did you do with that roll you usedto carry around out here?” Reid inquired,watching the compounding of the tobacco.

“It was a mighty little one, Earl,”Mackenzie returned, laughing pleasantly.

“It’s big enough for me––hand it over!”

Reid flipped his gun from the scabbard,his elbow pressed close to his side as hereclined in the lazy, inoffensive pose,holding the weapon down on Mackenziewith a jerk which he must have practicedlong to give it the admirable finish andspeed.

CHAPTER XXVI

PAYMENT ON ACCOUNT

Mackenzie raised his eyes slowly from histask of blending tobacco, looked for amoment into Reid’s determined face,remembering with a falling heart that hehad taken his own revolver off and hung itin the wagon when he came in, to relievehimself of the weight.

“Hurry––hand it out!”

Reid lifted himself slightly, elbow stillpressed close to his side, raising his facea foot nearer Mackenzie’s, his eyes drawnsmall, the corners of his mouth twitching.

Mackenzie’s hands were poised oneabove the other, as he had suspended hismilling operations. As quickly as the handof a prestidigitator flashes, Mackenzieswept the one that held the tobacco,dashing the powdered mixture into Reid’seyes.

Reid fired as he sprang to his feet, gaspingand choking, momentarily blinded by thefiery tobacco. Mackenzie felt the bullet lifthis hair as it passed his temple, and beforeit was many rods on its way through thecanvas top of the wagon he had grappledwith Reid and wrenched his gun away.

Reid had no hands for a fight, even if ithad been in him to attempt it, being busywith his streaming eyes. He cursedMackenzie as he sputtered and swabbed.

“Damn it all, Mackenzie, can’t you take ajoke?” he said.

“No, I don’t get you––you’re too funny forme,” Mackenzie returned. “Here––washyour eyes.”

Mackenzie offered the water pail, Reidgroping for it like a blind man, more tearsstreaming down his face than he had spentbefore in all his life together. He got therough of it out, cursing the while,protesting it was only a joke. ButMackenzie had read human eyes andhuman faces long enough to know a jokewhen he saw it in them, and he had notseen even the shadow of a jest in thetwitching mask of Reid’s unfeelingcountenance as he leaned on his elbowholding his gun.

“You were right about it a little whileago,” Mackenzie told Reid when helooked up with red, reproachful eyespresently; “this range isn’t big enough foryou and me.” Mackenzie jerked his handtoward the saddle and bridle which Reidhad lately taken from his horse. “Get tohell out of here!”

Reid went without protest, or word of anykind, wearing his belt and emptyscabbard. Mackenzie watched him saddleand ride over the ridge, wondering if hewould make a streak of it to Sullivan andtell him what a poor hand his school-teaching herder was at taking a joke.Curious to see whether this was Reid’sintention, Mackenzie followed him to thetop of the hill. Reid’s dust was all he

could trace him by when he got there, andthat rose over toward Swan Carlson’sranch, whence he had come not more thanan hour ago.

Pretty thick business between thatprecious pair, Mackenzie thought, and of asort not likely to turn out of much profit toeither them or anybody else. Carlson wasa plain human brute without any sense ofhonor, or any obligation to the amenitiesof civilized society; Reid was simply anunmoral sharper.

It didn’t make any difference where Reidwent, or what he planned; he would haveto stay away from that camp. ThatMackenzie vowed, meaning it to the lastletter. Tim Sullivan would be informed ofthis latest pleasantry at their first meeting,

also, and hear a chapter from Mackenzie’sheart on the matter of Joan.

Joan! If that leper Reid ever came nearJoan, or ever blew the pollution of a wordto her, he would nail him to the groundwith a bullet, no matter that he was in debtto him for his life.

Mackenzie found the rifle that Sullivanhad provided Reid for his defense underthe bunk in the wagon, with ammunitionenough to withstand a siege. Reidevidently had not been using the gun inpractice very much, confining hisrehearsals to the quick slinging of hispistol, rather, as the cunning of his hand inthe attempted robbery that afternoonseemed to prove. Not wanting Reid tohave any weapon to his hand in case he

came back, Mackenzie buckled on therevolvers, hid the rifle near the wagon,and went back to guard the sheep.

Mackenzie felt himself softening in hisjudgment of Reid as the day drew towardevening. He feared he had been a littlesevere with him, taking his gun away andsending him off, surly and vindictive.Perhaps it was only a joke, as Reid hadprotested, although there had been noglimmer of jest in his eyes when he hadslung out his gun.

Still, the boy was hardly responsible,oppressed by his load of dissatisfaction,harrassed and disturbed by thatunbalancing ailment they called thelonesomeness. If he had come at it right,Mackenzie reflected, he could have had a

hundred dollars or so, even though instaking him to it he would have beenhelping a criminal to escape.

He began to hope Reid would come backand try to square it. If he wanted themoney to leave the country on then hecould have it. Holding him there in thesheep country would not work hisreformation, but would breed and store thevirus of resentment, making him a trulydangerous man to set free to prey uponsociety when his term was done.

But Reid never would remain to finish histhree years of penance there. Joan hadseen it, even before his malady hadfastened upon him so deeply. It might be amerciful deed to finance his going, andspeed him toward the land of his desire.

But how he would live in Mexico wouldbe another matter. Perhaps he wouldwork. At any event, he would be free.

Mackenzie had ranged his flock aconsiderable distance from the wagon,keeping to the hilltops above the sheep,according to the custom of herders. Hewas sitting in a gully, his back against thebank, feeling a weariness over him that heblamed mainly to the weight of therevolvers and cartridge belt in hisweakened state, when he saw Reidcoming back.

Reid broke over the hill beyond the sheep-wagon at a gallop, hatless, riding low, andthe sound of shots behind him beat the tuneto which he traveled. Mackenzie got to hisfeet, his weariness gone on the surge of

concern that thrilled him. Hector Hall hadcome to collect his outstanding account atlast.

And Reid was unarmed. Because of thishe had been forced to flee before hisenemy like a coward, against his nature, tohis humiliation, Mackenzie knew. Heshould not have allowed Reid to leavecamp without his gun, he would not havedone it if he had reflected a moment on therisk of going unarmed when there was oneabroad on the range who sought his life. IfReid should fall, Mackenzie felt he wouldbe an accessory to the crime.

Two men were pursuing Reid. They drewup a moment on the hilltop, then camedown the long slope at reckless speed, notwasting any more ammunition at that

distance, which was not above twohundred yards, but dividing to cut offReid’s retreat, draw in on him then, andmake an end of it at close range.

Reid halted at the wagon, where he madea hasty search for the rifle withoutdismounting, hidden for a moment from hispursuers. He was too far away to hearMackenzie’s shouted directions forfinding the gun. On again towardMackenzie he came, halting a little wayalong to look back at the men who weremaneuvering to cut off any swerving orretreat that he might attempt. Mackenziebeckoned him on, shouting, waving hishat, running forward to his relief.

Mackenzie’s thought was to give Reid hisrevolver, split the ammunition with him,

each of them take a man, and fight it out.But Reid sat straight in the saddle, lookingback at the two who came pressing on,seeming to fear them less than he hated thehumiliation of seeking shelter underMackenzie’s protection. Mackenzieunderstood his feeling in the matter, andrespected Reid for it more than foranything he ever had done.

While Mackenzie was yet a hundred yardsfrom Reid he saw him swing from thesaddle and shelter himself behind hishorse. Hall and his companion werestanding off warily, a good pistol shotfrom Reid, distrustful of this suddenchange in his tactics, apparently believinghe had come to the place he had selectedto make his defensive stand. A little while

they stood waiting for him to fire, thenseparated, the stranger circling to comebehind Mackenzie, Hall moving a littlenearer to Reid, who kept his horse beforehim with the craft of an Indian.

Hall stood a little while, as if waiting forReid to fire, then rode forward, throwinga stream of lead as he came. Reid’s horsereared, ran a few rods with head thrownwildly high, its master clinging to the bit,dragging over shrub and stone. Suddenly itcollapsed forward on its knees, andstretched dead.

Reid flung himself to the ground behindthe protection of its carcass, Hall pausingin his assault to reload. The man who hadridden a wide and cautious circuit to getbehind Mackenzie now dismounted and

began firing across his saddle. Mackenzieturned, a pistol in each hand, indecisive amoment whether to return the fellow’s fireor rush forward and join Reid behind thebreastworks of his beast.

The stranger was nearer Mackenzie bymany rods than Hall, but still so far awaythat his shots went wide, whistling highover Mackenzie’s head, or kicking dirtamong the shrubs at either hand. Hall wascharging down on Reid again, but with awariness that held him off a distance ofcomparative safety.

In the moment that he paused there,considering the best and quickest move tomake to lessen Reid’s peril, the thoughtshot to Mackenzie like a rending ofconfusing clouds that it was not so much

Reid’s peril as his own. These men hadcome to kill him; their sighting Reid on theway was only an incident. It was his fight,and not Reid’s, for Reid was safe behindhis horse, lying along its body close to theground like a snake.

This understanding of the situation clearedthe air tremendously. Where he had seenin confusion, with a sense of mingling andturning but a moment before, Mackenzienow beheld things with the sharpness ofself-interest, calculating his situation witha comprehensive appraisement of everyyard that lay between him and hisenemies. He was steady as a tree, lightwith a feeling of relief, of justification forhis acts. It was as if putting off the thoughtthat he was going into this fight for Earl

Reid had taken bonds from his arms,leaving him free to breathe joyously andstrike with the keenness of a man who hasa wild glory in facing tremendous odds.

All in a moment this clearing of brain andlimb came to him, setting him up as if hehad passed under an icy torrent and comeout refreshed and clear-eyed into the sun.He bent low behind a shrub and rusheddown the hillside toward the man whostood reloading his pistol, his hat-crownshowing above the saddle.

Reid was all right back there for a littlewhile, he knew; Hall would hold off a bit,not knowing what he might meet byrushing in with precipitation. This onefirst, then Hall. It was not Reid’s fight; itwas his fight, Reid but an incident in it, as

a sheep might run between the combatantsand throw its simple life in peril.

The fellow behind the horse, too sure ofhis safety, too contemptuous of thisshepherd schoolmaster whose notorioussimplicity had gone abroad in thesheeplands exciting the rough risibilitiesof men, was careless of whether his targetstood still or ran; he did not lift his eyesfrom the reloading of his gun to see. Andin those few precious moments Mackenzierushed down on him like a wind from themountain, opening fire with not more thantwenty yards between.

Mackenzie’s first shot knocked leatherfrom the saddle-horn. The horse squatted,trembling, snorted its alarm, trampled inpanic, lifting a cloud of dust. And into this

rising dust Mackenzie sent his lead, notseeing where it struck, quickly emptyingone revolver, quickly shifting weaponsfrom hand to hand, no pause in his hotassault.

The stranger cursed his frightened horse,both hands busy with the beast to stay itfrom plunging away and leaving himexposed to something he had not countedon meeting. Mackenzie pushed on, firing atevery step. The horse partly turned, headtoward him, partly baring the scoundrelwho was that moment flinging his leg overthe saddle to seek a coward’s safety. Itwas a black mare that he rode, a whitestar in its forehead, and now as it facedabout Mackenzie, not thirty feet away,threw a bullet for the white spot between

the creature’s eyes. It reared, and fell,coming down while its rider’s leg still layacross the saddle, his other foot held inthe stirrup.

A moment Mackenzie stood, the smokingpistol in his hand, leaning forward like aman who listened into the wind, his broadhat-brim blown back, the smoke of hisfiring around him. The horse lay still, itsrider struggling with one leg pinned underit, the other across the saddle, the spur ofthat foot tearing the dead creature’s fleshin desperate effort to stir in it the life thatno cruelty could awaken.

Leaning so, the wind in his face, thesmoke blowing away behind him,Mackenzie loaded his revolvers. Then heran to the trapped invader of his peace and

took away his guns, leaving him imploringmercy and assistance, the dead horseacross his leg.

Mackenzie was aware of shooting behindhim all this time, but only as one isconscious of something detached andimmaterial to the thing he has in hand.Whether Hector Hall was riding down onhim in defense of his friend, or whether hewas trying to drive Reid from the shelterof his fallen horse, Mackenzie did notknow, but from that moment Hall was hisbusiness, no matter where he stood.

Putting out of the fight the man who laypressed beneath his horse had been anecessary preliminary, a colorless detail,a smoothing away of a small annoyance inthe road of that hour’s great work. For the

end was justified beforehand between himand Hall. It was not a matter of vengeance,but of justice. This man had onceattempted to take away his life by the mostdiabolical cruelty that human depravitycould devise.

This passed through Mackenzie’s thoughtslike the heat of a fire that one runs by as heswung round to face Hall. Apparentlyunconcerned by what had befallen hisfriend, Hall was circling Reid’s deadhorse, holding tenaciously to his intentionof clearing the ground before him as headvanced. Reid snaked himself on hiselbows ahead of his enemy’s encirclingmovement, keeping under cover withadmirable coolness and craft.

Mackenzie ran forward, throwing up his

hand in command to Hall, challenging himas plainly as words to turn his efforts froma defenseless man to one who stood readyto give him battle. Hall drew off a littlefrom Reid’s concealment, distrustful ofhim even though he must have known himto be unarmed, not caring to put a manbehind his back. Still drawing off in thatway, he stopped firing to slip morecartridges into his automatic pistol,watching Mackenzie’s rapid advance,throwing a quick eye now and then towardthe place where Reid lay out of his sight.

Hall waited in that sharp pose of watchfulindecision a moment, then spurred hishorse with sudden bound toward Reid. Heleaped the carcass of Reid’s animal at agallop, firing at the man who huddled

close against its protection as he passedover. Mackenzie could not see Reid fromwhere he stood, but he felt that his perilwas very great, his chances almosthopeless in the face of Hall’sdetermination to have revenge on hisbrother’s slayer in defiance of what mightcome to himself when the thing was done.

Mackenzie ran a little nearer, and openedfire. Heedless of him, Hall swung hishorse back at a gallop, firing at Reid as headvanced. Reid came rolling round thecarcass of his horse to place himself in theprotection of the other side, so nimble inhis movements that Mackenzie drew abreath of marveling relief. If Reid wastouched at all by Hall’s vicious rain oflead, it could be only slightly.

Hall’s headlong charge carried himseveral rods beyond Reid, the horsespringing high over the barrier. AgainReid escaped, again he came rolling backto shelter, his body as close to the groundas a worm’s. When Hall pulled up hissliding, stiff-legged horse and turned inthe cloud of dust to ride once more uponhis defenseless enemy, it was to faceMackenzie, who had run up and postedhimself directly in his way.

Reid’s dead horse lay not more thantwenty feet behind Mackenzie. HectorHall leaned glowering at him through thedust perhaps twice that distance ahead. Amoment Hall leaned in that way, thencame spurring on, holding his fire as if hispurpose were to ride Mackenzie down in

contempt.

Mackenzie fired, steady against theonrushing charge as a rock in the desertwind. He was thrilled by a calmsatisfaction in meeting this man who hadcontemned and despised him, whose coldeyes spoke insults, whose sneering lipswere polluted with the blasphemies of hisfilthy heart.

When Hall returned the fire he was soclose that the flame of his weapon struckhot against Mackenzie’s face. Mackenzieleaped aside to avoid the horse, untouchedsave by the spurting flame, emptying hispistol into Hall’s body as he passed. Alittle way on Hall wheeled the horse andcame riding back, but the blindness ofdeath was in his face, his rapid shots fell

wild among the shrubs at Mackenzie’sside.

On past Mackenzie the horse galloped,Hall weaving in the saddle, the reinshanging free, his hands trailing at hissides. Mackenzie put his pistol in thescabbard with slow and deliberate hand,feeling that the battle was done, watchingHall as he rode blindly on.

A little way, and the horse, whetherthrough some wild caprice of its own, orsome touch of its dying rider, circledback, galloping down the long slopetoward the man who had come to helpHall adjust his differences with thesecontemptible sheepmen. Hall’s hat fell offas his head sank forward; he bent,grappling his horse’s mane. So for a little

way he rode, then slipped from the saddle,one foot entangled in the stirrup.

The horse stopped suddenly, as if aweighted rein had been dropped.Mackenzie ran down the hill to disengageHall’s foot. But his merciful haste wasuseless; Hall was beyond the torture ofdragging at a stirrup.

Mackenzie released the foot with a sadgentleness, composed the dusty body,drew the reins over the horse’s head andleft it standing beside its dead master.Hall’s companion in the raid was stillstruggling under his fallen horse, and fromthe vigor of his attempts to free himselfMackenzie gathered that he was not muchhurt.

A moment’s work set the scoundrel on his

feet, where he limped on a whole bone,whole enough to ride on many a rascallyforay again. Mackenzie said nothing tohim, only indicated by a movement of thehand what he was to do. Limpingpainfully, the fellow went to Hall’s horse,lifted his friend’s body across the emptysaddle, mounted behind it with a struggle,and rode in humiliation from the field,glad enough to be allowed to go.

Reid was standing beside his dead horse,watching the fellow ride away. So for alittle he stood, as if he debated somemovement against the man who had soughthis life with such hot cruelty but a fewminutes past, not turning to see whetherMackenzie came or went. Presently hetook his coat from the saddle, slung it over

his shoulder, looked after the retreatingman again, as if debating whether tofollow.

Mackenzie came up, Reid’s pistol in hishand. This he offered, apology in hismanner, but no words on his lips. Reidtook it, silent and unmoved, shoved it intohis scabbard, walked away.

From the manner of his going, Mackenzieknew he was not hurt. It was acomfortable thought for Mackenzie that hisinterference had at least saved Reid awound. Doubtless he had saved him more.In that last charge, Hector Hall wouldhave had his life.

A part of his tremendous obligation toReid was paid, and Reid understood it so.But the knowledge of it seemed to gall

him, so deeply, indeed, that it appeared herather would have died than haveMackenzie succeed in his defense.

Reid stopped where Hector Hall’s hat hadfallen. He turned it with his foot, lookingdown at it, and presently picked it up. Hemade as if he would put it on, but did not,and passed on carrying it in his hand.

Mackenzie wondered what his plans mightbe, and whether he ought to go after himand try to put their differences out of theway. Reid did not stop at the wagon. Hecontinued on to the top of the hill, defiantof the man who rode away with Hall’sbody, his pistol again on his thigh. Therehe stood looking this way and that a littlewhile, as a man looks who is undecided ofhis road. Then he passed on. When

Mackenzie reached the spot where Reidhad stood, he was no longer in sight.

Mackenzie thought Reid might be goingdeliberately to seek the battle from whichhe had been obliged so lately to fleeunarmed. Mackenzie waited on theeminence, listening for the sounds of fight,ready to hasten to Reid’s assistance if heshould stand in need of it again. So the lasthour of the afternoon passed. Mackenzieturned back to his flock at length,believing Reid had gone on his way to thefreedom he had weighed against hisinheritance only a few hours before.

It was just as well then as another day,Mackenzie reflected, as he turned thesheep from their grazing. Not that he hadmeant to drive Reid out of the country

when he told him to go, but it was just aswell. Soon or late it would have to cometo a show-down between them, and onewould have been compelled to leave.

But how would Sullivan view this abruptending of the half-million-dollar penance,and the loss of three years’ unpaid labor?Not kindly, certainly. It probably wouldresult in the collapse of all Mackenzie’so w n calculations as well, and theblighting of his sheep-wealth dreams.

And that day he had slain a man in defenseof Earl Reid’s life, as Reid had killed indefense of his.

From the first hour he set his feet on thetrail to the sheep country this culminationof his adventures had been shaping. Littleby little it had been building, the

aggression pressed upon him, his attitudeall along one of defense. Perhaps whentrouble is heading for a man, as this wasinevitably directed, the best thing to do isrush to meet it with a club in the hand.

That was the way it looked to JohnMackenzie that evening. Trouble will putthings over on a man who is bent tocompromise, every time. Undoubtedly itlooked that way. But he had killed a man.It was a heavy thing to carry on his soul.

This depressing shadow thickened overhim as the sun drew down to the hills, andhe went working his flock slowly to thenight’s bedding-ground. The complaint ofthe lambs, weary from following andfrisking the day through, was sadder tohim than it ever had fallen on his ears

before. It seemed a lament for thepollution of his hands in human blood,moving a regret in his heart that washarder to bear than fear.

Mackenzie sat above the resting sheep asthe shadows drew toward him betweenthe hills, a glow as of a distant city wherethe sun went down an hour past. The riflewas beside him, his pistol in his belt, forregret of past violence would not make thenext hour secure. If trouble should lift itshead in his path again, he vowed he wouldkill it before it could dart and strike.

No, it was not a joke that Reid had pulledon him that afternoon. Reid had meant torob him, urged on to the deed by hispreying discontent and racking desire tobe away. Reid was on his way out of the

country now, and if they caught him andtook him before the judge who hadsentenced him to this unique penance, hewould have the plea that Mackenzie drovehim out, and that he fled to save his life.

That might be sufficient for the judge;certainly it would be enough for TimSullivan. Sullivan would bring him back,and Mackenzie would be sent to pick upthe trail of his fortunes in another place,with years of waiting between him andJoan, perhaps.

So Mackenzie sat with his moodythoughts, depressed, downhearted,regretting bitterly the necessity that hadrisen for taking away a fellow-creature’slife. It bore on him heavily now that theheat of his blood had subsided; it stood

before him an awful accusation. He hadkilled a man! But a man who had forfeitedhis right to live, a man who had attemptedto take his life in the past, who had comeagain that day to hunt him like a coyote onthe hills. The law would exculpate him;men would speak loudly of hisjustification. But it would stand againsthim in his own conscience all his days.Simple for thinking of it that way, heknew; simple as they held him to be in thesheep country, even down to old DadFrazer, simplest among men.

He had no desire in his mouth for supper,although he set about preparing it, wantingit over before dark. No need of a blaze ora glow of a coal to guide anybody thatmight be prowling around to drop a bullet

i nto him. That surly rascal who boreHector Hall’s body away might comeback to do it, but the man who stood firstin his thoughts and caution was Earl Reid,out there somewhere in the closing nightwith a gun on him and an itch in his handto use it.

CHAPTER XXVII

A SUMMONS IN THE NIGHT

Somebody was calling on the hill behindthe sheep-wagon. Mackenzie sat up, achill in his bones, for he had fallen asleepon watch beside the ashes of his supperfire. He listened, the rack of sleepclearing from his brain in a breath.

It was Dad Frazer, and the hour was pastthe turn of night. Mackenzie answered, thesound of a horse under way immediatelyfollowing. Dad came riding down the hillwith 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 fromexcitement as if he had run the distancebetween the camps on foot. “Mary comeover on her horse a little while ago androusted me out. She said somebody justpassed her camp, and one of ’em wasJoan.”

“Joan? What would she––what doesMary–––?”

“That’s what I said,” Dad told him,sliding to the ground. “I said Joanwouldn’t be trapsin’ around this time ofnight with nobody, but if she did happen tobe she could take care of herself. But

Mary said she sounded like she wasfussin’ and she thought something must bewrong, and for me to hop her horse andcome hell-for-leather and tell you.”

“How many––which way were theygoing?”

“Two horses, Mary said, from the sound,but she didn’t hear nobody’s voice butJoan’s. She got Charley up, and they runout and hollered, but she didn’t hearnothing more of Joan. The poor kid’sscared out of her ’leven senses.”

“Which way did they go––did Mary say?”

“Towards Swan Carlson’s ranch, shesaid.”

Mackenzie swung into the saddle andgalloped off, leaving Dad listening to the

sound of his going.

“Nutty, like the rest of ’em,” said Dad.

Carlson’s house was not more than eightmiles from the range where Mackenziewas running his sheep. He held his coursein that direction as he rode break-neck uphill and down. He had little belief that itcould have been Joan who passed Mary’scamp, yet he was disturbed by an anxietythat made his throat dry, and a fear thatclung to him like garments wet in the rain.

Reid could not have anything to do with itin any event, Joan or somebody else, forReid was horseless upon the range. But ifJoan, he was at entire loss to imagineupon what business she could be ridingthe country that hour of the night. Joan hadno fear of either night or the range. She

had cared for her sheep through storm anddark, penetrating all the terrors that nightcould present, and she knew the range toowell to be led astray. It must have been avoice that Mary had heard in a dream.

Mackenzie felt easier for these reflections,but did not check his pace, holding ontoward Carlson’s house in as straight aline as he could draw. He recalledcuriously, with a prickling of renewedanxiety, that he always expected to becalled to Carlson’s house for the last actin the sheeplands tragedy. Why, he did notknow. Perhaps he had not expected it;maybe it was only a psychologicallightning-play of the moment, reflecting anunformed emotion. That likely was theway of it, he reasoned. Surely he never

could have thought of being called toCarlson’s ranch.

In that fever of contradiction he pushed on,knees gripping his horse in the tensity ofhis desire to hasten, thinking to hold theanimal up from stumbling as an anxiousrider in the night will do. Now hebelieved it could not have been Joan, andfelt a momentary ease; now he wasconvinced that Mary could not havemistaken her sister’s voice, and the sweatof fear for her burst on his forehead andstreamed down into his eyes.

From the side that he approachedCarlson’s house his way lay through avalley at the end, bringing him up a slightrise as he drew near the trees that stoodthickly about the place. Here he

dismounted and went on, leading hishorse. A little way from the house hehitched his animal among the trees, andwent forward in caution, wary of a dogthat might be keeping watch beside thedoor.

There was no moon. The soft glow of afew misty, somnolent stars gave no lightamong the trees, no light shone from thehouse. Mackenzie recalled the night hehad first approached that door and comesuddenly around the corner into the palebeam of Hertha Carlson’s lantern. Nowthe kitchen door might be shut, and therewas no window on that side.

Mackenzie stopped to listen, his senses askeen as a savage’s under his strain. Onewho has not approached danger and

uncertainty, listening and straining in thenight, cannot conceive the exquisite pitchto which human nerves can be attuned.The body then becomes a tower set withthe filaments of wireless telegraphy, eachof the thousand nerves straining forth tocatch the faintest sound, the most shadowydisturbance. Even premonitions becomeverities; indistinct propositions tangiblefacts.

In that exalted pitch of nervous sensibilityMackenzie stood listening, fifty feet orless from the kitchen door. No sound, buta sharp scent of cigarette smoke cameblowing from the dark house. Mackenzie’sheart seemed to gorge and stop. Earl Reidwas there. Perhaps Mary had not heard avoice in a dream.

At the closed door Mackenzie listened.For a little, no sound; then a foot shiftedon the floor. Almost immediately someonebegan walking up and down the room,pushing a chair aside as if to clear theway. Mackenzie remembered the windowhigh in the wall beside the stove and wenthastily around the house to it, restraininghimself from bursting precipitately intosomething which might be no concern ofhis or warrant his interference at all. Itseemed so preposterous even to suspectthat Joan was there.

Reid was pacing up and down the room, alantern standing on the floor beside thechair from which he had risen. The placehad been readjusted since the ruin that fellover it in Mackenzie’s fight with Swan;

the table stood again in the place where hehad eaten his supper on it, the broken legbut crudely mended.

Reid seemed to be alone, from what of theinterior of the house Mackenzie could see,shifting to bring the door of the inner roomto view. It was closed; Joan was not there.

Mackenzie watched Reid as he paced upand down the kitchen floor. There was anervousness over him, as of a man whofaced a great uncertainty. He walked withbent head, now turning it sharply as hestood listening, now going on again withhands twitching. He threw down hiscigarette and stamped it, went to thekitchen door, opened it and stoodlistening.

A little while Reid stood at the door, head

turned, as if he harkened for the approachof somebody expected. When he turnedfrom the door he left it open, rolled acigarette, crossed to the door of the innerroom, where he stood as if he debated thequestion of entering. A little while in thatuncertain, hesitant way; then he struck amatch on the door and turned again to hispacing and smoking.

Mackenzie almost decided to go to theopen door and speak to Reid, and learnwhether he might be of assistance to himin his evident stress. He was ready toforgive much of what had passed betweenthem, blaming it to Reid’s chafing againstthe restraint that was whetting him downto a bone.

Mackenzie felt now that he had not

handled Reid in the right way. Reid wasnot of the slow, calculative, lead-balancedtype of himself. He was a wolf ofcivilization, to whom these wilds weremore galling than the bars of a prison. Thejudge who had agreed to this sentence hadread deeply in the opaque soul of theyouth.

Prison would not have been much of apenance for Reid. There he would havefound intrigue, whispering, plottings; ahundred shadowy diversions to keep hisperverted mind clear and sharp. Here hemet only the silence of nature, the sternestaccuser of a guilty soul. Reid could notbear the accusation of silence. Under it hismind grew irritable with the inflammationof incipient insanity. In a little while it

would break. Even now he was breaking;that was plain in his disordered eyes.

Still Mackenzie hesitated to speak to him,watching him as he went with increasingfrequency to the open door to listen. It wasnot his affair; 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. But she was notthere, and Reid was waiting for somebodyto come. Swan Carlson or his wife, it mustbe, and what business they had beforethem in this unrighteous hour Mackenziecould not imagine. But plainly it hadnothing to do with Joan.

Mackenzie’s thoughts reverted to the nighthe came to that cabin among the trees,guided thither by the plaintive melody of

Hertha Carlson’s song. What a fool he hadbeen to linger on there that night waiting tosee Swan, in the mistaken kindness to thewoman the wild fellow had made hisslave. If he had gone on that night, leavingthe still waters of trouble unstirred, hewould have walked in peace through hisapprenticeship. Surely his crowding oftrouble at Swan Carlson’s door that nightwas the beginning of it all.

There was that door closed now on theinner room; on that night it stood open, thelong chain that bound the Swede’s wiferunning through it from the staple driveninto the log. Mackenzie had not noticed thethickness of the door’s planks that night,or the crudity of its construction. Thehandiwork of Swan Carlson was

proclaimed from that door; it was roughand strong, like himself, without finish,loosely joined. Its planks were oak; greatnails in them marked the Z of its brace.

Then Mackenzie turned his eyes uponReid again. Reid went back to the innerdoor, pushed it, tried it with his foot. Itseemed to be fastened within. Perhapsthere was a reason for its strength; maybeSwan kept his crude treasures lockedthere in that small stronghold of logswhile he roamed the range after his sheep.Reid did not appear greatly interested inthe door, or what lay behind it. He turnedfrom it almost at once, drew his chair infront of it, sat down, his right hand towardMackenzie, the lantern light strong on thelower part of his body, his face in shadow

from the lantern’s top. Mackenziequickened with a new interest, a newspeculation, when he saw that Reid’sholster hung empty at his belt.

At once Mackenzie decided to speak toReid, certain that he had been throughsome misadventure in which he hadsuffered loss. He drew away from thewindow, going around the front part of thehouse to come to the kitchen door, thinkingit might be wise to know the way the landlay around those premises.

This part of the house was little largerthan the shack of boards that had beenbuilt to it. There was no opening in itssolid log walls, neither of window ordoor save alone the door opening into thekitchen. The place was a vault.

Somebody was approaching, ridingrapidly up the valley. There was morethan one horse, Mackenzie could wellmake out as he stood at the corner of thehouse, listening. He saw Reid’s shadowfall in the light that spread through theopen door, and turned back to keep hiswatch at the window.

It was not the moment to offer friendshipor sympathy to Reid. Something of Reid’sown brewing was coming to a boil there,some business of his own was drawing toa head in that lonely cabin among thewhispering trees.

Reid took up the lantern, stood a momentas if indecisive, placed it on the stove.Not satisfied with the way the light of itstruck him there, apparently, he removed it

and stood it in a corner. Whoever wascoming, Reid did not want it known at aglance that his scabbard was empty.Mackenzie pressed a little nearer thewindow. When a man prepared for ameeting with that caution, he would do towatch.

Reid went to the open door, where hestood like a host to receive his guests. Theriders were among the trees; coming onmore slowly. Now they stopped, and Reidturned to light a fresh cigarette. The flashof the match showed his face white, hatpulled down on his brows, his thin, longgamester’s fingers cupped round the blaze.

There fell a moment of silence, no soundof word, no movement of horse or footupon the ground. Insects among the trees

were grinding their scythes fortomorrow’s reaping, it seemed, whirringin loud, harsh chorus such as one neverheard out on the grazing lands.

Now the sound of footsteps approachingthe door. Reid came back into the room,where he stood drawing a deep breath ofsmoke like a man drinking to store againsta coming thirst. He dropped the cigarette,set his foot on it, crushed it to sparks onthe floor.

Swan Carlson was in the door, the lightdim on his stern, handsome face. Behindhim stood his woman, a white wimplebound on her forehead like a nun.

CHAPTER XXVIII

SWAN CARLSON LAUGHS

“So, you are here?” said Swan, standingin the door, looking about him as if he hadentered an unfamiliar place.

“Didn’t you look for me?” Reid returned.He stood between Carlson and the closedinner door, foot on a rung of the chair inwhich he lately had sat, his attitudecareless, easy.

“A man never knows,” Carlson replied,coming into the room.

Hertha Carlson lingered just outside the

door, as if repelled by the recollection ofold sufferings there. Swan reached out,grasped her wrist, drew her roughlyinside, pointed to a chair. The woman satdown, her eyes distended in fright, her feetdrawn close to the chair as if to hide themfrom the galling chain that she had draggedso many weary months across the floor ofher lonely prison.

Swan pulled a chair to the table and satdown, elbows on the board, facing Reid, aquestion in his attitude, his face, to whichhe at once gave words:

“Where’s your woman?”

“Where’s the money?” Reid countered,putting out his hand. “You threw me downafter I delivered you three hundredsheep––you didn’t come across with a

cent––on the plea that one thief couldn’tcollect from another. All right, Swan;we’ll forget the sheep deal, but this isanother matter. Put your money in myhand; then we’ll talk.”

“Is she in there?” Swan pointed to thedoor behind Reid, half rising from hischair.

Reid put his hand to his empty holster, hisbody turned from Carlson to conceal hiswant of a weapon. Carlson jerked hishead in high disdain, resumed his chair,his great hand spread on the table.

Mackenzie stepped back from thewindow, leveling his pistol at Reid’shead. Joan was the subject of thisinfamous barter.

A moment Mackenzie’s finger stiffened tosend a bullet into Reid’s brain, for heconsidered only that such depravity wasits own warrant of death. But Reid wasunarmed, and there was something in hisattitude that seemed to disclose that it wasa bluff. Joan was not there.

Joan was not there. She would not remainsilent and unresisting, shut in a roomwhile a cold-blooded scoundrel bargainedto deliver her for a price like a ewe out ofhis flock. Reid was playing to even thedeceit Carlson had put over on him indealing for the stolen sheep. It was a bluff.Joan was not there.

Mackenzie let down the weapon. It wasnot the moment for interference; he wouldallow the evidence to accumulate before

passing sentence and executing it withsummary hand.

“Come across with the money before wego any further,” said Reid, firm in hismanner, defiantly confident in his bearing.“I’ve got to get out of this country beforemorning.”

“I wouldn’t give five hundred dollars forher,” Swan declared. “How do I knowshe’d stay with me? She might run offtomorrow if I didn’t have a chain on her.”

Reid said nothing. He backed a littlenearer the door as if he had it in mind tocall the negotiations off. Swan looked athim with chin thrust forward, neckextended.

“She ain’t here––you’re a liar!” he

charged.

“All right; there’s a pair of us, then.”

“I’ve brought my woman––” Swanstretched out his hand to call attention toher where she cowered in herchair––“fixed up to meet you like a bride.Woman for woman, I say; that’s enoughfor any man.”

“I don’t want your woman, Carlson.”

“You tried to steal her from me; you waslovin’ her over on the range.”

“What do you care? You don’t want her.”

“Sure I don’t,” Swan agreed heartily; “if Idid I’d ’a’ choked your neck over therethat night. Woman for woman, or notrade.”

“That’s not our bargain, Carlson.”

Reid spoke sharply, but with a dry quaverin his voice that betrayed the panic thatwas coming over him on account of thisthreatened miscarriage of his plans.Mackenzie was convinced by Reid’smanner that Swan had read him right. Joanwas not there.

The thought that Joan would accompanyReid in the night to Swan Carlson’s houseon any pretext he could devise in hiscrafty mind was absurd. It was all a bluff,Reid playing on Swan’s credulity toinduce him to hand over the money, whenhe would make a dash for the door andride away.

Mackenzie stood close to the window,pistol lifted, thinking it all out between

Reid’s last word and Carlson’s next, forthe mind can build a castle while the heartis pausing between throbs.

“My woman for yours, that’s a fair trade,”said Swan. “I don’t want to put no moneyin a wild colt that maybe I couldn’t break.Open the door and bring her to me, andtake my woman and go.”

“Nothing doin’,” said Reid, regaining hisnonchalance, or at any rate control of hisshaking voice.

“You’re a liar, you ain’t got no womanhere.”

“She’s in there, all right––come acrosswith the money and take her.”

“How do I know you’ve got any right tomake a trade? Have you got the papers to

show she’s yours?”

“I’ve got all the papers you’ll ever need.”

“You ain’t got no papers––she’s as muchmine as she is yours. Open the door!”

Carlson got up, towering above Reid inhis great height. He took off his hat andflung it on the table, stood a little whilebending forward in his peculiar loosedroop with arms swinging full length athis sides. Reid backed away from him,standing with shoulders against the dooras if to deny him passage, hand thrown tohis empty holster.

“You ain’t got no gun!” Swan said,triumphantly. “I seen the minute I come inthe door you didn’t have no gun. Iwouldn’t fight a feller like you––you

couldn’t stand up to me like that otherfeller done here in this house one night.”

Swan looked round the room, the memoryof that battle like a light upon his stonyface. He stood in silence, turning his headslowly, as if he found a pleasure in thestages of the past battle as recalled to himby the different locations in the place.

“You wanted me to kill that feller so hecouldn’t take your woman away from you,didn’t you?” Swan said, contemptuously.“Over there that day me and you made thatjoke on him runnin’ my sheep over intohis. But he didn’t take that joke––what?He stood up to me and fought me like anold bear, and he’d ’a’ whipped meanother time if it hadn’t been for themdogs helpin’ me. You bet your hat he

would! Yes, and then you come up, andyou said to me: ‘Soak him another one!’And I looked at you, with red in my eyes.‘Soak him, put him out for good this time!’you says. And I looked at you anothertime, my eye as red as blood.

“‘No,’ I says, ‘damn your skin, I’ll notsoak him when he’s down, and you’ll notdo it, and no man ain’t a goin’ to do it!He’s the only man on this range that canstand up to me,’ I told you, ‘and I’m goin’to save him to fight!’ That’s what I said toyou. Well, he’ll come after me when I takehis woman away from him––he’ll comeafter me so hard he’ll make the groundshake like a train––and he’ll fight me forher, a fight that men will remember! We’llroar like the wind, him and me, when we

stand up and fight for his woman that Itook away from him this night.”

Reid drew away from him, seeming tocontract upon himself against the door,and whether Swan read it Mackenziecould not tell, but he could see from thewindow the sickness of fear spread overReid’s pale face.

“You ain’t got no gun on you,” Swanmocked, taking joy from that moment.“Hell! my old woman can lick you, andI’m goin’ to make her do it. Then I’ll takethat feller’s woman away from you andkick you to hell out of here!”

Swan turned to Hertha, who had left herchair on his first threatening move towardReid. She had advanced a little way intothe room, a wild fury in her face against

the man who had bargained to bringanother woman between her and herfierce, harsh-handed lord. Swan took herby the arm, his hand at her back as if togive her courage.

“Go on––lick him––choke him the way Ishowed you how to choke a man!”

Swan clapped his hands, stamping his footsharply, as he had clapped and stamped tourge on the dog against Mackenzie that daythey fought on the range. And like a dogthat has strained on a leash the womanleaped, flinging herself upon Reid with awild, high-shrilling cry.

Reid tried to guard his face against herfury, attempted to grapple her arms andhold her. She broke away, clawing hisface, screaming her maniacal cry. In a

moment they were a whirling tangle ofarms, wild-flying hair, swaying bodiesbent in fierce attack and desperatedefense. The furious creature had Reid bythe throat in the grip Swan had taught her,strangling out his life.

Reid clung to her wrists, struggling to tearher hands from his throat, thrashing wildlyabout before the closed door, his headstriking it now as the woman flung him,now his shoulders as she bent him to forcehim to the floor.

Swan stood by, leaning forward in a poseof deep interest, deep satisfaction, savageenjoyment, his loose-hanging arms at hissides, his long mustaches down beside hismouth. He said nothing to encourage hiswoman in her mad combat, only seemed

waiting the issue, ready to lay his hand tofinishing it in the event that she shouldfail.

The fighting woman, still screaming abovethe din of their trampling feet, struggled tolift her knee to Reid’s chest. Mackenzieturned from the window to interfere, notcaring to see Reid go that way, no matterwhat sins lay upon his young soul. As hecame running to the door, he saw Reidstruggle to his feet, tear the mad woman’shands away, and strike her a sharp blowin the face.

There must have been surprising power inthat slender arm, or else its strength wasmultiplied by the frenzy of the stranglingman, for the woman dropped as if she hadbeen struck with an ax. Swan Carlson,

standing there like a great oaf, opened hisimmense mouth and laughed.

Reid staggered against the wall, hands athis throat, blood streaming from hisnostrils, bubbling from his lips as hebreathed with wide-gasping mouth. Hestood so a little while, then collapsed withsudden failing, no strength in him to easethe fall.

Carlson turned to face Mackenzie, his icymirth spent.

“It’s you?” he said. “Well, by God, it’s aman, anyhow!”

Carlson offered his hand as if infriendship. Mackenzie backed away,watchful of him, hand to his pistol.

“Who’s in that room, Carlson?” he asked.

“Maybe nobody,” Swan replied. “We’llfight to see who opens the door––what?”

There was an eager gleam in Carlson’sface as he made this proposal, standingbetween Mackenzie and the closed door,his arm stretched out as if to bar theschoolmaster’s nearer approach. He benttoward Mackenzie, no hostility in hismanner or expression, but rather more likea man who had made a friendlysuggestion, the answer to which he waitedin pleasurable anticipation.

Mackenzie looked at him coldly,measuring his great strength, weighing hismagnificent body down to the last unit ofits power. Carlson’s shirt was open at histhroat, his laced boots came to his kneesover his baggy corduroy trousers, his long

red hair hung over his temples and ears.

“No, there’s been fighting enough,”Mackenzie said, thinking that Joan must bebound and gagged if in that room. Surelyshe would have spoken otherwise at thesound of his voice.

Hertha Carlson rose to her hands andknees, where she remained a spell like acreeping child, almost at Mackenzie’sfeet. Reid lay where he had sunk down,pitched forward in front of the closeddoor.

“I’ll open it, then,” said Swan in the sameglowing eagerness. “It’ll be a game––whatever I find I’ll keep!”

“Don’t touch it!” Mackenzie warned,drawing a little nearer, his weapon half

out of the scabbard.

Mrs. Carlson rose between them, tall,disheveled, dress torn open at her bosom.She seemed dazed and oblivious to whatwas passing, stood a moment, handspressed to her face as one racked by anagony of pain, went to the door, and out.Carlson stood staring after her a breath,his bold chin lifted high, a look of surprisepassing like a light over his eyes.

“What I find will be mine,” Carlson said,almost happily. “Come on––we’ll fightlike a couple of men!”

Carlson thrust his hand into the bosom ofhis shirt as he spoke, and drew out arevolver with a long sweep of his mightyarm, throwing his body with the movementas if he rocked with a wild, mad joy.

Mackenzie fired as Carlson lifted theweapon to throw it down for a shot.Carlson’s pistol fell from his shatteredhand.

Swan stood a moment, that flickering lightof surprise flashing in his eyes again. Thenhe threw back his head and shouted in themad joy of his wild heart, his great mouthstretched wide, his great mustachesmoving in his breath. Shouting still, as hisViking forebears shouted in the joy ofbattle, the roar of his great voice going farinto the night, Swan rushed uponMackenzie like a wounded bear.

Mackenzie gave back before him, leapingaside, firing. Checked a moment, more bythe flash of the discharge in his eyes thanby the bullet, it seemed, Swan roared a

wilder note and pressed the charge. Hisimmense, lunging body was dim beforeMackenzie through the smoke, hisuninjured hand groping like a man feelingfor a door in a burning house.

Swan fell with the mad challenge on histongue, and cried his defiance still as hewrithed a moment on his back, turning hisface to the open door and the peace of thenight at last, to die. To die in greaterheroism than he had lived, and to lie therein his might and wasted magnificence ofbody, one hand over the thresholddabbling in the dark.

Mackenzie took the lantern from thecorner where Reid had set it in hisstudious play for the advantage that didnot come to his hand, and turned back to

the closed door. Reid lay as he had fallen,Carlson’s revolver by his side. Mackenziestepped over him and tried the door. Itwas unlocked, fastened only by the ironthumb-latch.

A moment Mackenzie stood, lifting thelantern to light the small room to itscorners, then went in, peering andexploring into every shadow.

“Great God! She wasn’t here at all! AndI’ve killed a man for that!” he said.

He turned to the open door, stifled byremorse for what he had done, although hehad done it in a fight that had been pushedupon him, as all his fights in thesheeplands had been pushed. He mighthave taken Swan at his manly offer to fighthand-to-hand to see who should open the

door; or he might have allowed him toopen it, and saved all violence betweenthem.

And this was the end of Earl Reid’s bluffto Carlson that he would deliver Joan tohim there, bargained for and sold after thewild and lawless reasoning of the Norseflockmaster. And Swan had drawn hisweapon with a glad light in his face, andstood up to him like a man.

“Throw it down here, Mackenzie––youcan’t get by with it this time!”

Mackenzie looked up from his daze ofremorseful panic, slowly, amazedly, notfully realizing that it was a human voicehe heard, to see Reid where he hadscrambled to his knees, Carlson’s gun inone hand, the other thrown out to support

his unsteady body.

“You can have it, Earl,” Mackenzie said,with the relief in his voice of a man whohas heard good tidings.

“Hurry!” said Reid, in voice strained anddry.

“My gun’s empty; you can have it too. I’mthrough,” Mackenzie said.

As he spoke, Mackenzie jerked the lanternsharply, putting it out. Reid fired.Mackenzie felt the shot strike his thigh likethe flip of a switch when one rides througha thicket. He threw himself upon Reid, andheld his arm while the desperate youthfired his remaining shots into the wall.

Mackenzie shook Reid until he droppedthe empty revolver, then took him by the

neck and pushed him to the open door.And there the morning was spreading,showing the trees outlined against the east.

“Come out here and we’ll talk it over,Reid.” Mackenzie said.

Reid had nothing to say. He was sullen,uncontrite. Mackenzie waited a littlewhile for him to speak, holding himharshly by the collar.

“Well, there’s the road out of thiscountry,” Mackenzie said, seeing hewould not speak. “This is the last trickyou’ll ever try to throw here on me oranybody else. I suppose you came here onone of Carlson’s horses; go and get it, andwhen you start, head south.”

Mackenzie felt the leg of his trousers wet

from the blood of his wound, and began tohave some concern lest an artery had beencut. But this he put off investigating untilhe heard Reid ride out to the dim road infront of Carlson’s cabin, and go his wayout of the sheeplands to whatever destinylay ahead.

Then Mackenzie looked himself over, tofind that it was not a serious wound. Hebound up the hurt with his handkerchief,and turned his face away from that tragicspot among the cottonwoods, their leavesmoving with a murmur as of falling rain inthe cool morning wind.

CHAPTER XXIX

SHEEPMAN––AND MORE

“So I just took his gun away from him andslapped him and sent him on,” said Joan.

“I thought that must have been the way ofit,” Mackenzie said, sighing as if his lasttrouble had left him.

“When he tried to make me believe Iwasn’t within seven miles of Dad Frazer’scamp I got my suspicions up. The idea ofthat little town rat trying to mix me up onmy range! Well, I was a little off on myestimate of where the wagons were, butthat was because they’d been moved so

many times while I was over home.”

“I figured it that way, Joan.”

“But what do you suppose he was tryin’ topull off on me, John, bringing me out hereon the pretense you’d been all shot up inthe fight with Hector Hall and wantedme?”

“I don’t know, Joan,” Mackenzie said,lying like the “kind of a gentleman” hewas.

“I thought maybe the little fool wanted tomake me marry him so he could get somemoney out of dad.”

“Maybe that was it, Joan; I pass it up.”

“Dad Frazer says Earl was crazy from thelonesomeness and killing Matt Hall.”

“I think he must have been, Joan. It’sover––let’s forget it if we can.”

“Yes, you haven’t done a thing but fightsince you struck this range,” Joan sighed.

Mackenzie was lying up in Rabbit’shospital again, undergoing treatment forthe bullet wound in his thigh. He hadarrived at Dad Frazer’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 into Rabbit’s hands,leaving explanations until later. They hadcome to the end of them now.

But Mackenzie made the reservation ofReid’s atrocious, insane scheme inbringing Joan from home on the pretextthat the schoolmaster had fallen woundedto death in the fight with Hector Hall, and

lay calling for her with his wasting breath.Mackenzie knew that it was better for herfaith in mankind for all her future years,and for the peace of her soul, that sheshould never know.

“My dad was here a little while ago––he’s gone over to put a man in to take careof your sheep, but he’ll be along back herethis evening. He wants to talk somebusiness with you, he said.”

“Well, we’re ready for him, Joan,”Mackenzie said. And the look that passedbetween them, and the smile that lightedtheir lips, told that their business had beentalked and disposed of already, let TimSullivan propose what he might.

“I’ll leave it to you, John,” said Joan,blushing a little, her eyes downcast in

modesty, but smiling and smiling like agrowing summer day.

Tim Sullivan arrived toward evening,entering the sheep-wagon softly, his loudtongue low in awe for this fighting man.

“How are you, John? How are you, lad?”he whispered, coming on his toes to thecot, his face as expressive of respect as ifhe had come into the presence of the dead.

Mackenzie grinned over this great mark ofrespect in the flockmaster of PoisonCreek.

“I’m all right,” he said.

Tim sat on an upended box, leaningforward, hat between his knees, mouthopen a bit, looking at Mackenzie as if hehad come face to face with a miracle.

“You’re not hurted much, lad?” heinquired, lifting his voice a little, thewonder of it gradually passing away.

“Not much. I’ll be around again in nine orten days, Rabbit says.”

“You will,” said Tim, eloquentlydecisive, as though his heart emptied itselfof a great responsibility, “you will that,and as good as a new man!”

“She’s better than any doctor I ever saw.”

“She is that!” said Tim, “and cheaper,too.”

His voice grew a little louder, comingthus to familiar ground in the discussion ofvalues and costs. But the awe of this manwho went fighting his way was still big inthe flockmaster’s eyes. He sat leaning,

elbows on thighs, mouth still open, asrespectfully awed as if he had just comeout of a church. Then, after a little while,looking around for Joan:

“What was he up to, John? What was hetryin’ to do with my girl?”

Mackenzie told him, in few words andplain, pledging him to keep the truth of itfrom Joan all his days. Tim’s face grewpale through the deep brown of sun andwind. He put his hand to his throat,unbuttoning his collar with tremblingfingers.

“But she was too smart for him!” he said.“I’ve brought her up a match for any ofthem town fellers––they can’t put anythinglike that over on my little Joan. And youdidn’t know but she was there, locked in

and bound hand and foot, lad? And youfought old Swan and laid him cold at last,hand to hand, man to man! Lord! And youdone it for my little Joan!”

“Let’s forget it,” Mackenzie said,uncomfortable under the praise.

“It’s easy said, lad, but not so easy done.A man remembers a thing the like of thatwith gratitude to his last hour. And wethought you an easy-goin’ man, that couldbe put on and wasn’t able to hold yourown,” said Tim, confessing more in hismomentary softness than he would havedone on reflection.

“We thought you was only aschoolteacher, wrapped up in rhymes andbirds!”

“Just a plain simpleton that would eat outof anybody’s hand,” Mackenzie grinned.

“Not a simpleton, lad; not a simpleton. Butmaybe soft in your ways of dealin’ withother men, lettin’ ’em go when you oughtto knocked ’em cold, the way you let Hallgo the day you took his guns off of him.But we couldn’t see deep in you, lad;you’re no simpleton, lad––no simpleton atall.”

Tim spoke in soothing conciliation, as ifhe worked to salve over the old hurts ofinjustice, or as if he dealt with the mishapof a child to whom words were morecomforting than balm. He was comingback to his regular sheepman form, crafty,conciliatory; never advancing one footwithout feeling ahead with the other. But

the new respect that had come over himfor Mackenzie could not be put whollyaside, even though Tim might have thedisposition to do it. Tim’s voice was stillsmall in his mouth, his manner softened byawe.

“You’ve shown the mettle of a sheepman,”Tim said, “and more. There’ll be peaceand quiet on this range now.”

“I brought nothing but trouble to it. Youhad peace and quiet before I came.”

“Trouble was here, lad, but we dodged it.There wasn’t a man of us had the courageto face it and put it down like you’ve doneit. Carlson and them Halls robbed me yearin and year out, and stole the range I paidrent on from under my feet. Swan stolesheep from me all the time that boy was

runnin’ them next him there––I miss aboutthree hundred from the flock today.”

“Reid sold them to him, but didn’t get hismoney. He complained about it to Swanlast night.”

“He’d do it,” nodded Tim; “his fatherbefore him done it. It runs in the blood ofthem Reids to steal. I’ll have them threehundred sheep back out of Swan’s widowtomorrow.”

“Is she over there with the sheep?”

“I didn’t see her around.”

“The poor creature’s crazy from her hardusage and suffering. I think somebodyought to go over there and help herstraighten things out.”

“I’ll see to it,” Tim promised. “Yes, itmust be done. Now that wild devil’s deadwe must be neighborly with the widowand give her a chance. I’ll see to ittomorrow. Where’s my Joan?”

“She’s making some broth for my supper.”

“That’s right, that’s right––she’ll care foryou, lad; I’ll leave her here with Rabbit tocare for you. Sure. She was for you, allalong. I couldn’t see it.”

“Well, you’ve got it right this time,”Mackenzie said.

Tim beamed. He rubbed his hands, greatsatisfaction in his face.

“I’ll find somebody else for my Mary––we’ll consider her no more,” he said. “Letyou go on with Joan in the bargain in

place of Mary, and give me three years forher, and the day you marry her I’ll driveover to you a thousand sheep.”

“Nothing doing,” said Mackenzie.

“Two years, we’ll say––two instead ofthree, John. Joan will be her own man intwo years; she’ll be twenty-one. And theday you marry her I’ll make it fifteenhundred sheep.”

“She’s her own man now under the lawsof this state, and I’m taking her without asingle head of sheep. You can keep themall––Joan is enough for me.”

Tim was a greatly injured man. His facelengthened two inches, a look of reproachcame into his eyes; he seemed on the pointof dissolving in tears.

“You’re not goin’ to quit me and takeaway my girl, the best one of my flock, myewe lamb, my Joan? I didn’t think you’dturn on me like that, lad; I didn’t think youhad it in your heart!”

“You took away Joan’s ewe lambs, andher buck lambs, and all her lambs, morethan a thousand of them, after she’d servedyou through sun and storm and earnedthem like a man. No, I don’t think I couldtrust you two years, Mr. Sullivan; I don’tbelieve your memory would hold you to abargain that long, seeing that it would bein the family, especially.”

“I’ll give Joan back her flock, to run itlike she was runnin’ it, and I’ll put it inwritin’ with you both. Two years, we’llsay, John––two short easy years.”

“No.”

“Don’t you throw away your chances now,John, don’t you do it, lad. If you marry myJoan now I’ll give you not a sheep, notone blind wether! But if you’ll stay by mea year for her I’ll give you a weddin’ atthe end of that time they’ll put big in thepapers at Cheyenne, and I’ll hand over toyou three thousand sheep, in your ownname.”

“I’m not thinking as much about sheep as Iwas three months ago,” said Mackenzie,yawning as though he had grown tired ofthe subject. “Joan and I have made ourplans; you can approve them or turn themdown. We’re going away when we’remarried.”

“Goin’ away!” said Tim, his voice

betraying the hollowness of his heart.

“But we’re coming back–––”

“Comin’ back?” said Tim, gladness inevery note.

“Joan’s heart is in the sheep range––shecouldn’t tear it away if she tried. Shethought she wanted to go, but I’ll havehard work to get her farther than Jasper.Joan had the lonesomeness; she’s curednow.”

“She had, poor gerrel! I didn’t see it, but Isee it now. But you’ll be comin’ back!”

“Yes. Joan and I belong on the sheeprange––we’re both too simple andconfiding to run around loose in theworld.”

Tim was looking at Mackenzie, his headtipped to one side a little in his great, newinterest, his greater, newer understanding.

“You’ll come back and make it home?”said he.

“Home,” Mackenzie nodded. “There’s noother place that calls. You can welcomeus or turn us away, but we’ll find a placeon the range, and I’ve got money enough tobuy us a little band of sheep.”

“No need, lad, no need for that. What Ihave I’ll divide with you the day youcome home, for I’ve made a place in myheart for you that’s the place of a son,”said Tim.

Mackenzie knew the flockmaster hadreached a point at last where he would

stand, writing or no writing, for there wasthe earnestness of truth in his voice, thevibrant softness of affection. He gave theflockmaster his hand, saying no word. Timtook it between his own as if he held awoman’s, and held it so while he spoke:

“And the place is here for you when youcome back be it a year from now or fiveyears. You’re a sheepman now, John.”

“And I’m more,” said Mackenzie, with acontented sigh. “I’m a sheepwoman’sman.”

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