“You’d better keep away from there,” said Mackenzie, dryly.
“Oh, I guess I can take care of Swan if you could,” Reid returned, with a certain easy insolence, jerking his hip to hitch his gun around in suggestive movement.
Mackenzie dropped the matter without more words, seeing too plainly the humor of the youth. Maybe Dad had diagnosed his ailment aright, but to Mackenzie it appeared something more than plain lonesomeness. The notoriety attending the killing of Matt Hall had not been good for Reid. He wanted more of it, and a bigger audience, a wider field.
If this was a taste of the adventure of the West’s past romantic times, Mackenzie felt that he was lucky he had come too late to share it. His own affair with Swan Carlson had been sordid enough, but this unlucky embroilment in which Reid had killed a man was a plain misfortune to the hero of the fight. He told Reid of Dad’s request.
“You go and run his sheep for him,” Reid suggested. “It’ll take you a little nearer Joan.”
This he added as with studied sneer, his face flushing darkly, his thin mouth twisted in an ugly grin.
Mackenzie passed it, but not without the hurt of the unkind stab showing in his face. It was so entirely unjustified as to be cruel, for Mackenzie was not in Reid’s way even to the extent of one lurking, selfish thought. Since Reid had saved his life from Matt Hall’s murderous hands, Mackenzie had withdrawn even 155 his most remote hope in regard to Joan. Before that he had spun his thread of dreams, quite honestly, and with intent that he would not have denied, but since, not at all.
He owed Reid too much to cross him with Joan; he stepped aside, denying himself a thought of her save only in relation of teacher and pupil, trying to convince himself that it was better in the end for Joan. Reid had all the advantage of him in prospects; he could lift up the curtain on his day and show Joan the splendors of a world that a schoolmaster could point out only from afar. Mackenzie seemed to ignore the youth’s suggestion that he go and tend Dad’s flock.
“If I had a thousand dollars I’d dust it for Mexico tomorrow,” said Reid. He turned to Mackenzie, pushing his hat back from his forehead, letting the sun on his savagely knotted face. “I haven’t got money to send a telegram, not even a special delivery letter! Look at me! A millionaire’s son and sole heir, up against a proposition like this for three years!”
Mackenzie let him sweat it out, offering neither water for his thirst nor wood for his fire. Reid sat in surly silence, running his thumb along his cartridge belt.