“Have you soured on it already, Earl?”
Reid sat on the bundle of tent, a cloud on his face, hat drawn almost to the bridge of his nose, scowling out over the sheep range as if he would curse it to a greater barrenness.
“Three years of this, and what’ll I be? Hell! I can’t even find that other Hall.”
“Have you been out looking for him?”
“That big Swede over there was tellin’ me he’s put me down in his book for a killin’. I thought I’d give him a chance to get it over with if he meant it.”
“Has Carlson been over?”
“No, I rode over there the other evening. Say, is that the woman you found chained up when you struck this country?”
“She’s the one.”
Mackenzie looked at Reid curiously as he answered. There was something of quick eagerness in the young man’s inquiry, a sudden light of a new interest in his face, in sharp contrast with the black mood of a moment before.
“She looks like an Ibsen heroine,” said Reid. “Take 154 that woman out of this country and dress her right, and she’d be a queen.”