Reid had finished his dinner when Mackenzie arrived. He was sitting in the shade of some low bushes, his hat on the ground, smoking a cigarette. He looked up at the sound of Mackenzie’s approach, smiling a little, waving his cigarette in greeting.
“Hello, Jacob,” he said.
Mackenzie felt the hot blood rush to his face, but choked down whatever hot words rose with it. But he 264 could not suppress the indignation, the surprise, that came with the derisive hail. It seemed that the range, vast, silent, selfish, melancholy as it was, could not keep a secret. What did Reid know about any Jacob and Rachel romance? How had he learned of that?
“How’re you makin’ it, Earl?” Mackenzie returned, pleasantly enough. And to himself: “He listened, the scoundrel––sneaked up on us and heard it all!”
“Oh, well enough,” said Reid, coughing huskily.
If well enough, a little more of it would do for him, Mackenzie thought, noting with surprise the change that had come over Reid since they last met. The improvement that had begun in him during his first weeks on the range had not continued. Opposed to it, a decline appeared to have fastened upon him, making his flaccid cheeks thinner, his weary eyes more tired, his slight frame lighter by many pounds. Only his voice was unchanged. That was hearty and quick, resonant of enjoyment in life and a keenness in the pursuits of its pleasures. Reid’s voice was his most valuable possession, Mackenzie knew; it was the vehicle that had carried him into the graces of many transitory friends.
“I thought Tim had sent some old taller-heel over to let me off––I didn’t know it was you,” said Reid, lying with perfect ease.
“Taller-heel enough, I guess,” Mackenzie returned, detached and inattentive as it seemed, his mind fixed on dinner.
“I didn’t think you’d be able to get out so soon from what Dad told me. Been havin’ some trouble with your hand?”