“She is that!” said Tim, “and cheaper, too.”
His voice grew a little louder, coming thus to familiar ground in the discussion of values and costs. But the awe of this man who went fighting his way was still big in the flockmaster’s eyes. He sat leaning, elbows on thighs, mouth still open, as respectfully awed as if he had just come out of a church. Then, after a little while, looking around for Joan:
“What was he up to, John? What was he tryin’ to do with my girl?”
Mackenzie told him, in few words and plain, pledging him to keep the truth of it from Joan all his days. Tim’s face grew pale through the deep brown of sun 311 and wind. He put his hand to his throat, unbuttoning his collar with trembling fingers.
“But she was too smart for him!” he said. “I’ve brought her up a match for any of them town fellers––they can’t put anything like that over on my little Joan. And you didn’t know but she was there, locked in and bound hand and foot, lad? And you fought old Swan and laid him cold at last, hand to hand, man to man! Lord! And you done it for my little Joan!”
“Let’s forget it,” Mackenzie said, uncomfortable under the praise.
“It’s easy said, lad, but not so easy done. A man remembers a thing the like of that with gratitude to his last hour. And we thought you an easy-goin’ man, that could be put on and wasn’t able to hold your own,” said Tim, confessing more in his momentary softness than he would have done on reflection.
“We thought you was only a schoolteacher, wrapped up in rhymes and birds!”
“Just a plain simpleton that would eat out of anybody’s hand,” Mackenzie grinned.
“Not a simpleton, lad; not a simpleton. But maybe soft in your ways of dealin’ with other men, lettin’ ’em go when you ought to knocked ’em cold, the way you let Hall go the day you took his guns off of him. But we couldn’t see deep in you, lad; you’re no simpleton, lad––no simpleton at all.”