“I’ll leave it to you, John,” said Joan, blushing a little, her eyes downcast in modesty, but smiling and smiling like a growing summer day.
Tim Sullivan arrived toward evening, entering the sheep-wagon softly, his loud tongue low in awe for this fighting man.
“How are you, John? How are you, lad?” he whispered, 310 coming on his toes to the cot, his face as expressive of respect as if he had come into the presence of the dead.
Mackenzie grinned over this great mark of respect in the flockmaster of Poison Creek.
“I’m all right,” he said.
Tim sat on an upended box, leaning forward, hat between his knees, mouth open a bit, looking at Mackenzie as if he had come face to face with a miracle.
“You’re not hurted much, lad?” he inquired, lifting his voice a little, the wonder of it gradually passing away.
“Not much. I’ll be around again in nine or ten days, Rabbit says.”
“You will,” said Tim, eloquently decisive, as though his heart emptied itself of a great responsibility, “you will that, and as good as a new man!”
“She’s better than any doctor I ever saw.”