“There’s the table leg you hit him with!” Tim picked it up, plucking off the red hairs which clung to it, looking at Mackenzie with startled eyes. Mackenzie mounted his horse.
“You’d better shut the door,” he called back as he rode away.
Tim caught up with him half a mile on the way back to the hay-field. The sheepman seemed to have outrun his words. A long time he rode beside Mackenzie in silence, turning a furtive eye upon him across his long nose now and then. At last it burst from him:
“You done it!” he said, with the astonished pleasure of a man assured against his doubts.
Mackenzie checked his horse, looking at Tim in perplexed inquiry.
“What are you talking about?” he asked.
“You laid him out––Swan Carlson––you done it! Man!”
“Oh, you’re still talking about that,” Mackenzie said, a bit vexed.
“It would be worth thousands to the rest of us sheepmen on this range if he never comes back.”
“Why didn’t some of you handle him long ago? A man of your build ought to be able to put a dent in Carlson.”