Tim spoke in soothing conciliation, as if he worked to salve over the old hurts of injustice, or as if he dealt with the mishap of a child to whom words were more comforting than balm. He was coming back to his 312 regular sheepman form, crafty, conciliatory; never advancing one foot without feeling ahead with the other. But the new respect that had come over him for Mackenzie could not be put wholly aside, even though Tim might have the disposition to do it. Tim’s voice was still small in his mouth, his manner softened by awe.
“You’ve shown the mettle of a sheepman,” Tim said, “and more. There’ll be peace and quiet on this range now.”
“I brought nothing but trouble to it. You had peace and quiet before I came.”
“Trouble was here, lad, but we dodged it. There wasn’t a man of us had the courage to face it and put it down like you’ve done it. Carlson and them Halls robbed me year in and year out, and stole the range I paid rent on from under my feet. Swan stole sheep from me all the time that boy was runnin’ them next him there––I miss about three hundred from the flock today.”
“Reid sold them to him, but didn’t get his money. He complained about it to Swan last night.”
“He’d do it,” nodded Tim; “his father before him done it. It runs in the blood of them Reids to steal. I’ll have them three hundred sheep back out of Swan’s widow tomorrow.”
“Is she over there with the sheep?”
“I didn’t see her around.”
“The poor creature’s crazy from her hard usage and suffering. I think somebody ought to go over there and help her straighten things out.”
“I’ll see to it,” Tim promised. “Yes, it must be 313 done. Now that wild devil’s dead we must be neighborly with the widow and give her a chance. I’ll see to it tomorrow. Where’s my Joan?”