“Nothing to it,” said Reid, modestly, laughing again in his grating harsh way of vast experience, and scorn for the things which move the heart.
“It’s a good deal, I think,” said she. “But,” thoughtfully, “I don’t see what made him drop his gun.”
“You can search me,” said Reid, in his careless, unsympathetic way.
“It might have happened to anybody, though, a dog and a man against him.”
“Yes, even a better man.”
“A better man don’t live,” said Joan, with calm decision.
Reid bent his eyes to the pommel of his saddle, and sat so a few moments, in the way of a man who turns something in his thoughts. Then:
“I guess I’ll go on back to the sheep.”
“He may never get well to thank you for what you 217 did, Earl,” and Joan’s voice threatened tears in its low, earnest tremolo, “but I–––”
“Oh, that’s all right, Joan.” Reid waved gratitude, especially vicarious gratitude, aside, smiling lightly. “He’s not booked to go yet; wait till he’s well and let him do his own talking. Somebody ought to sneak that gun away from him, though, and slip a twenty-two in his scabbard. They can’t hurt him so bad with that when they take it away from him.”