Mackenzie made no comment. He was through his dinner and was filling his pipe, mixing some of Dad Frazer’s highly recommended twist with his own mild leaf to give it a kick.
“He played you into the game with Joan for a bait, and then I got shipped out here and spoiled that,” said Reid. “Now he’s stringin’ you on for Mary. If you’re 269 as wise a guy as I take you to be, Jack, you’ll cut this dump and strike out in business for yourself. There’s a feller over east of Carlson wants to sell out––you can get him on the run.”
“I couldn’t buy one side of a sheep,” Mackenzie replied, wondering why this sudden streak of friendly chatter.
Mackenzie ground Dad’s twist in his palm, poured a charge of his pale mixture into it, ground them again together under the heel of his fist, Reid looking on with languid eyes, hat down on his nose.
“What did you do with that roll you used to carry around out here?” Reid inquired, watching the compounding of the tobacco.
“It was a mighty little one, Earl,” Mackenzie returned, laughing pleasantly.
“It’s big enough for me––hand it over!”
Reid flipped his gun from the scabbard, his elbow pressed close to his side as he reclined in the lazy, inoffensive pose, holding the weapon down on Mackenzie with a jerk which he must have practiced long to give it the admirable finish and speed.