The Flockmaster of Poison Creek Part 30

Reid should not have Joan, he shouldn't have Joan, shouldn't have Joan! Blind from pain, sick, dizzy, the earth rising up before him as he walked, Mackenzie went on. He did not look back to see if Reid came to help him; he would have resented it if he had come, and cursed him and driven him away. For he should not have Joan; not have Joan; Joan, Joan, Joan!

How he found his way to Dad Frazer's camp Mackenzie never could tell.

It was long past dark when he stumbled to the sheep-wagon wherein the old herder and his squaw lay asleep, arriving without alarm of dogs, his own collies at his heels. It was the sharp-eared Indian woman who heard him, and knew by his faltering step that it was somebody in distress. She ran out and caught him as he fell.

CHAPTER XX

A MILLION GALLOPS OFF

Joan was returning to camp, weighed down by a somber cloud. Dad Frazer had carried word to her early that morning of Mackenzie's condition, the old man divided in his opinion as to whether man or beast had mauled the shepherd and left him in such melancholy plight.

"Both man and beast," Rabbit had told Joan, having no division of mind in the case at all. And so Joan believed it to be, also, after sitting for hours in the hot sheep-wagon beside the mangled, unconscious schoolmaster, who did not move in pain, nor murmur in delirium, nor drop one word from his clenched, still lips to tell whose hand had inflicted this terrible punishment.

And the range seemed bent on making a secret of it, also. Dad had gone hot-foot on Joan's horse to seek Earl Reid and learn the truth of it, only to ride in vain over the range where Mackenzie's flock grazed.

Reid was not in camp; the sheep were running unshepherded upon the hills. Now, Joan, heading back to her camp at dusk of the longest, heaviest, darkest day she ever had known, met Reid as she rode away from Dad Frazer's wagon, and started out of her brooding to hasten forward and question him.

"How did it happen--who did it?" she inquired, riding up breathlessly where Reid lounged on his horse at the top of the hill waiting for her to come to him.

"Happen? What happen?" said Reid, affecting surprise.

"Mr. Mackenzie--surely you must know something about it--he's nearly killed!"

"Oh, Mackenzie." Reid spoke indifferently, tossing away his cigarette, laughing a little as he shaped the shepherd's name. "Mackenzie had a little trouble with Swan Carlson, but this time he didn't land his lucky blow."

"I thought you knew all about it," Joan said, sweeping him a scornful, accusing look. "I had you sized up about that way!"

"Sure, I know all about it, Joan," Reid said, but with a gentle sadness in his soft voice that seemed to express his pity for the unlucky man. "I happened to be away when it started, but I got there--well, I got there, anyhow."

Joan's eyes were still severe, but a question grew in them as she faced him, looking at him searchingly, as if to read what it was he hid.

"Where have you been all day? Dad's been looking high and low for you."

"I guess I was over at Carlson's when the old snoozer came," Reid told her, easy and careless, confident and open, in his manner.

"Carlson's? What business could you----"

"Didn't he tell you about it, Joan?"

"Who, Dad?"

"Mackenzie."

"He hasn't spoken since he stumbled into Dad's camp last night. He's going to die!"

"Oh, not that bad, Joan?" Reid jerked his horse about with quick hand as he spoke, making as if to start down at once to the camp where the wounded schoolmaster lay. "Why, he walked off yesterday afternoon like he wasn't hurt much. Unconscious?"

Joan nodded, a feeling in her throat as if she choked on cold tears.

"I didn't think he got much of a jolt when Swan took his gun away from him and soaked him over the head with it," said Reid, regretfully.

"You were there, and you let him do it!" Joan felt that she disparaged Mackenzie with the accusation as soon as the hasty words fell from her tongue, but biting the lips would not bring them back.

"He needs _somebody_ around with him, but I can't be right beside him all the time, Joan."

"Oh, I don't mean--I didn't--I guess he's able to take care of himself if they give him a show. If you saw it, you can tell me how it happened."

"I'll ride along with you," Reid offered; "I can't do him any good by going down to see him. Anybody gone for a doctor?"

"Rabbit's the only doctor. I suppose she can do him as much good as anybody--he'll die, anyhow."

"He's not cut out for a sheepman," said Reid, ruminatively, shaking his head in depreciation.

"I should _hope_ not!" said Joan, expressing in the emphasis, as well as in the look of superior scorn that she gave him, the difference that she felt lay between Mackenzie and a clod who might qualify for a sheepman and no questions asked.

"I'll ride on over to camp with you," Reid proposed again, facing his horse to accompany her.

"No, you mustn't leave the sheep alone at night--it's bad enough to do it in the day. What was the trouble between him and Swan--who started it?"

"Some of Swan's sheep got over with ours--I don't know how it happened, or whose fault it was. I'd been skirmishin' around a little, gettin' the lay of the country mapped out in my mind. Swan and Mackenzie were mixin' it up when I got there."

"Carlson set his dogs on him!" Joan's voice trembled with her high scorn of such unmanly dealing, such unworthy help.

"He must have; one of the dogs was shot, and I noticed Mackenzie's hand was chewed up a little. They were scuffling to get hold of Mackenzie's gun when I got there--he'd dropped it, why, you can search me! Swan got it. He hit him once with it before I could--oh well, I guess it don't make any difference, Mackenzie wouldn't thank me for it. He's a surly devil!"

Joan touched his arm, as if to call him from his abstraction, leaning to reach him, her face eager.

"You stopped Swan, you took the gun away from him, didn't you, Earl?"

"He's welcome to it--I owed him something."

Joan drew a deep breath, which seemed to reach her stifling soul and revive it; a softness came into her face, a light of appreciative thankfulness into her eyes. She reined closer to Reid, eager now to hear the rest of the melancholy story.

"You took the gun away from Swan; I saw it in his scabbard down there. Did you have to--did you have to--do anything to Carlson, Earl?"

Reid laughed, shortly, harshly, a sound so old to come from young lips. He did not meet Joan's eager eyes, but sat straight, head up, looking off over the darkening hills.

"No, I didn't do anything to him--more than jam my gun in his neck. He got away with thirty sheep more than belonged to him, though--I found it out when I counted ours. I guess I was over there after them when Dad was lookin' for me today."

"You brought them back?" Joan leaned again, her hand on his arm, where it remained a little spell, as she looked her admiration into his face.

"Nothing to it," said Reid, modestly, laughing again in his grating harsh way of vast experience, and scorn for the things which move the heart.

"It's a good deal, I think," said she. "But," thoughtfully, "I don't see what made him drop his gun."

"You can search me," said Reid, in his careless, unsympathetic way.