“They handled me like a baby,” said he, bitterly, “and I, and I, wanting to be a sheepman! No wonder they think I’m a soft and simple fool up here, that goes on the reputation of a lucky blow!”
“There’s a man on a horse,” said Joan. “He’s coming this way.”
The rider broke down the hillside as she spoke, riding near the wreckage of the burning wagon, where he halted a moment, the strong light of the fire on his face: Swan Carlson, hatless, his hair streaming, his great mustache pendant beside his stony mouth. He came on toward them at once. Joan laid her hand on her revolver.
“You got a fire here,” said Swan, stopping near them, leaning curiously toward them as if he peered at them through smoke.
“Yes,” Mackenzie returned.
“I seen it from over there,” said Swan. “I come over to see if you needed any help.”
“Thank you, not now. It’s gone; nothing can be done.”
“I smelt coal oil,” said Swan, throwing back his head, sniffing the air like a buck. “Who done it?”
“Some of your neighbors,” said Mackenzie.