“How did it happen––who did it?” she inquired, riding up breathlessly where Reid lounged on his horse at the top of the hill waiting for her to come to him.
“Happen? What happen?” said Reid, affecting surprise.
“Mr. Mackenzie––surely you must know something about it––he’s nearly killed!”
“Oh, Mackenzie.” Reid spoke indifferently, tossing away his cigarette, laughing a little as he shaped the shepherd’s name. “Mackenzie had a little trouble with Swan Carlson, but this time he didn’t land his lucky blow.”
“I thought you knew all about it,” Joan said, sweeping him a scornful, accusing look. “I had you sized up about that way!”
“Sure, I know all about it, Joan,” Reid said, but with a gentle sadness in his soft voice that seemed to express his pity for the unlucky man. “I happened to be away when it started, but I got there––well, I got there, anyhow.”
Joan’s eyes were still severe, but a question grew in them as she faced him, looking at him searchingly, as if to read what it was he hid.
“Where have you been all day? Dad’s been looking high and low for you.”
“I guess I was over at Carlson’s when the old snoozer came,” Reid told her, easy and careless, confident and open, in his manner.