Mackenzie stood, gun half lifted, and watched them go without another shot, afraid to risk it lest he hit the woman. He turned to Joan, who stood by, white with anger, the empty revolver in her hand.
“Are you hurt, Joan?” he asked, in foolish weakness, knowing very well that she was.
“No, she didn’t hurt me––but I’ll kill her for it!” said Joan.
She was trembling; her face was bloodless in the cold 107 anger that shook her. There was a red welt on her neck, purple-marked on its ridge where the rawhide had almost cut her tender skin.
“Swan Carlson has pulled his woman down to his savage level at last,” Mackenzie said.
“She’s worse than he is; she’s a range wolf!”
“I believe she is. But it always happens that way when a person gets to going.”
“With those two and the Hall boys you’ll not have a ghost of a chance to hold this range, John. You’d better let me help you begin working the sheep over toward my camp tonight.”
“No, I’m going to stay here.”
“Swan and that woman just rode through here to get the lay of your camp. More than likely they’ll come over and burn you out tonight––pour coal oil on the wagon and set it afire.”