“Carlson set his dogs on him!” Joan’s voice trembled with her high scorn of such unmanly dealing, such unworthy help.
“He must have; one of the dogs was shot, and I noticed Mackenzie’s hand was chewed up a little. They were scuffling to get hold of Mackenzie’s gun when I got there––he’d dropped it, why, you can search me! Swan got it. He hit him once with it before I could––oh well, I guess it don’t make any difference, Mackenzie wouldn’t thank me for it. He’s a surly devil!”
Joan touched his arm, as if to call him from his abstraction, leaning to reach him, her face eager.
“You stopped Swan, you took the gun away from him, didn’t you, Earl?”
“He’s welcome to it––I owed him something.”
Joan drew a deep breath, which seemed to reach her stifling soul and revive it; a softness came into her face, a light of appreciative thankfulness into her eyes. She reined closer to Reid, eager now to hear the rest of the melancholy story.
“You took the gun away from Swan; I saw it in his 216 scabbard down there. Did you have to––did you have to––do anything to Carlson, Earl?”
Reid laughed, shortly, harshly, a sound so old to come from young lips. He did not meet Joan’s eager eyes, but sat straight, head up, looking off over the darkening hills.
“No, I didn’t do anything to him––more than jam my gun in his neck. He got away with thirty sheep more than belonged to him, though––I found it out when I counted ours. I guess I was over there after them when Dad was lookin’ for me today.”
“You brought them back?” Joan leaned again, her hand on his arm, where it remained a little spell, as she looked her admiration into his face.