“No, we’re even on it,” Reid returned. “He’d ’a’ broke my neck in another second if you hadn’t made that tackle. Who is he, do you know?”
“Turn him over,” Mackenzie said.
Reid withdrew the knife, sticking it into the ground with as little concern as if he had taken it from a butcher’s block, and heaved the fellow over on his back. The moonlight revealed his dusty features clearly, but Mackenzie brought the lantern to make it doubly sure.
“He’s not the man I thought he was,” said he. “I think this fellow’s name is Matt Hall. He’s the sheep-killer you’ve heard about. Look––he’s all over blood––there’s wool on his shirt.”
“Matt Hall, huh?” said Reid. He wiped the butcher knife on the dead sheep-killer’s shirt, making a little whistling, reflective sound through his teeth. “I’ll have to scour that knife before we cut bacon with it in the morning,” he said.