“You’ve got a wife, Swan,” Joan said, with gentle reproof, but putting the proposal from her as if she considered it a jest.
“I’m tired of that one,” Swan confessed, frankly. Then to Mackenzie: “I’ll fight you for her.” He swung half way out of the saddle, as if to come to the ground and start the contest on the moment, hung there, looking Mackenzie in the face, the light of morning revealing the marks of his recent battle. “Not now, you’ve had a fight already,” said Swan, settling back into the saddle. “But when you brace up, then I’ll fight you for her. What?”
“Any time,” Mackenzie told him, speaking easily, as if humoring the whim of some irresponsible person.
With a sudden start of his horse Swan rode close to Joan, Mackenzie throwing himself between them, catching the bridle, hurling the animal back. Swan did not take notice of the interference, only leaned far over, stretching his long neck, his great mustaches like the tusks of an old walrus, and strained a long look into Joan’s face. Then he whirled his horse and galloped away, not turning a glance behind.
Joan watched him go, saying nothing for a little while. Then:
“I think he’s joking,” she said.
“I suppose he is,” Mackenzie agreed, although he had many doubts.
They turned to look at the wagon again, the popping of ammunition having ceased. The woodwork was all on fire; soon it would be reduced to bolts and tires. Joan’s spirits seemed to have risen with the broadening of day, in spite of Swan Carlson’s visit and his bold jest, if jest he meant it to be. She laughed as she looked at the sheep, huddled below them in attitude of helpless fright.
“Poor little fools!” she said. “Well, I must go back to Charley. Don’t tell dad I was over here, please, John. He wouldn’t like it if he knew I’d butted in this way––he’s scared to death of the Halls.”