“You can have it, Earl,” Mackenzie said, with the relief in his voice of a man who has heard good tidings.
“Hurry!” said Reid, in voice strained and dry.
“My gun’s empty; you can have it too. I’m through,” Mackenzie said.
As he spoke, Mackenzie jerked the lantern sharply, putting it out. Reid fired. Mackenzie felt the shot strike his thigh like the flip of a switch when one rides through a thicket. He threw himself upon Reid, and held his arm while the desperate youth fired his remaining shots into the wall.
Mackenzie shook Reid until he dropped the empty revolver, then took him by the neck and pushed him to the open door. And there the morning was spreading, showing the trees outlined against the east.
“Come out here and we’ll talk it over, Reid.” Mackenzie said.
Reid had nothing to say. He was sullen, uncontrite. Mackenzie waited a little while for him to speak, holding him harshly by the collar.
“Well, there’s the road out of this country,” Mackenzie said, seeing he would not speak. “This is the last trick you’ll ever try to throw here on me or anybody else. I suppose you came here on one of Carlson’s 307 horses; go and get it, and when you start, head south.”
Mackenzie felt the leg of his trousers wet from the blood of his wound, and began to have some concern lest an artery had been cut. But this he put off investigating until he heard Reid ride out to the dim road in front of Carlson’s cabin, and go his way out of the sheeplands to whatever destiny lay ahead.
Then Mackenzie looked himself over, to find that it was not a serious wound. He bound up the hurt with his handkerchief, and turned his face away from that tragic spot among the cottonwoods, their leaves moving with a murmur as of falling rain in the cool morning wind.