Truly, he had been only second best all the way through, save for that “lucky blow,” as Tim called it, that had laid Swan out in the first battle. Now Swan and he were quits, a blow on each side, nobody debtor any more, and Reid was away ahead of anybody who had figured in the violence that Mackenzie had brought into the sheeplands with him as an unwelcome stranger lets in a gust of wind on a winter night.
In spite of all this, the vocation of sheepman never appeared so full of attractive possibilities to Mackenzie as it looked that hour. All his old calculations were revived, his first determination proved to him how deeply it had taken root. He had come into the sheep country to be a flockmaster, and a flockmaster he would be. Because he was fighting his way up to it only confirmed him in the belief that he was following a destined course, 257 and that he should cut a better figure in the end, somehow, than he had made at the beginning.
Tim Sullivan thought him simple; he looked at him with undisguised humor in his eyes, not taking the trouble to turn his back when he laughed. And they had taken Joan away out of his hands, like a gold-piece snatched from a child. But that was more to his credit than his disgrace, for it proved that they feared him more than they scorned him, let them laugh as they might.
But it was time for him to begin putting the credits over on the other side of the book. Mackenzie took it up with Dad Frazer that evening, Rabbit sitting by in her quiet way with a nod and a smile now and then when directly addressed.
“I don’t think you’re able to go over there and let that feller off,” Dad objected. “You can’t tell about Swan; he may come round lookin’ for more trouble, and you not half the man you was before him and that dog chawed you up that way.”
“I think I’ll make out, Dad. I’ll keep my eyes open this time, anyhow.”
“He may not be able to slip up on you any more, but if he crowds a fuss where’ll you be at, with that hand hardly able to hold a gun?”
“It will be different this time if he does. I’m going back to the sheep in the morning, Dad. I’ve got to get busy, and keep busy if I ever make good at this game.”
Dad grunted around his pipestem, his charge being burned down to the wood, and the savor too sweet on his tongue to lose even a whiff by giving room for a 258 word in the door of his mouth. Presently the fire fried and blubbered down in the pipe to the last atrocious smell, and there followed the noise of more strong twist-tobacco being milled between the old shepherd’s rasping palms. Rabbit toddled off to bed without a word; Dad put a match to his new charge, the light making him blink, discovering his curiously sheared face with its picturesque features strong, its weakness under the shadows.
“What did you think of Mary?” he inquired, free to discuss the ladies, now Rabbit was gone.