CHAPTER XXIX
SHEEPMAN--AND MORE
"So I just took his gun away from him and slapped him and sent himon," said Joan.
"I thought that must have been the way of it," Mackenzie said, sighingas if his last trouble had left him.
"When he tried to make me believe I wasn't within seven miles of DadFrazer's camp I got my suspicions up. The idea of that little town rattrying to mix me up on my range! Well, I was a little off on myestimate of where the wagons were, but that was because they'd beenmoved so many times while I was over home."
"I figured it that way, Joan."
"But what do you suppose he was tryin' to pull off on me, John,bringing me out here on the pretense you'd been all shot up in thefight with Hector Hall and wanted me?"
"I don't know, Joan," Mackenzie said, lying like the "kind of agentleman" he was.
"I thought maybe the little fool wanted to make me marry him so hecould get some money out of dad."
"Maybe that was it, Joan; I pass it up."
"Dad Frazer says Earl was crazy from the lonesomeness and killing MattHall."
"I think he must have been, Joan. It's over--let's forget it if wecan."
"Yes, you haven't done a thing but fight since you struck this range,"Joan sighed.
Mackenzie was lying up in Rabbit's hospital again, undergoingtreatment for the bullet wound in his thigh. He had arrived at DadFrazer's camp at sunrise, weak from the drain of his hurt, to findJoan waiting for him on the rise of the hill. She hurried him intoRabbit's hands, leaving explanations until later. They had come to theend of them now.
But Mackenzie made the reservation of Reid's atrocious, insane schemein bringing Joan from home on the pretext that the schoolmaster hadfallen wounded to death in the fight with Hector Hall, and lay callingfor her with his wasting breath. Mackenzie knew that it was better forher faith in mankind for all her future years, and for the peace ofher soul, that she should never know.
"My dad was here a little while ago--he's gone over to put a man in totake care of your sheep, but he'll be along back here this evening. Hewants to talk some business with you, he said."
"Well, we're ready for him, Joan," Mackenzie said. And the look thatpassed between them, and the smile that lighted their lips, told thattheir business had been talked and disposed of already, let TimSullivan propose what he might.
"I'll leave it to you, John," said Joan, blushing a little, her eyesdowncast in modesty, but smiling and smiling like a growing summerday.
Tim Sullivan arrived toward evening, entering the sheep-wagon softly,his loud tongue low in awe for this fighting man.
"How are you, John? How are you, lad?" he whispered, coming on histoes to the cot, his face as expressive of respect as if he had comeinto the presence of the dead.
Mackenzie grinned over this great mark of respect in the flockmasterof Poison Creek.
"I'm all right," he said.
Tim sat on an upended box, leaning forward, hat between his knees,mouth open a bit, looking at Mackenzie as if he had come face to facewith a miracle.
"You're not hurted much, lad?" he inquired, lifting his voice alittle, the wonder of it gradually passing away.
"Not much. I'll be around again in nine or ten days, Rabbit says."
"You will," said Tim, eloquently decisive, as though his heart emptieditself of a great responsibility, "you will that, and as good as a newman!"
"She's better than any doctor I ever saw."
"She is that!" said Tim, "and cheaper, too."
His voice grew a little louder, coming thus to familiar ground in thediscussion of values and costs. But the awe of this man who wentfighting his way was still big in the flockmaster's eyes. He satleaning, elbows on thighs, mouth still open, as respectfully awed asif he had just come out of a church. Then, after a little while,looking around for Joan:
"What was he up to, John? What was he tryin' to do with my girl?"
Mackenzie told him, in few words and plain, pledging him to keep thetruth of it from Joan all his days. Tim's face grew pale through thedeep brown of sun and wind. He put his hand to his throat,unbuttoning his collar with trembling fingers.
"But she was too smart for him!" he said. "I've brought her up a matchfor any of them town fellers--they can't put anything like that overon my little Joan. And you didn't know but she was there, locked inand bound hand and foot, lad? And you fought old Swan and laid himcold at last, hand to hand, man to man! Lord! And you done it for mylittle Joan!"
"Let's forget it," Mackenzie said, uncomfortable under the praise.
"It's easy said, lad, but not so easy done. A man remembers a thingthe like of that with gratitude to his last hour. And we thought youan easy-goin' man, that could be put on and wasn't able to hold yourown," said Tim, confessing more in his momentary softness than hewould have done on reflection.
"We thought you was only a schoolteacher, wrapped up in rhymes andbirds!"
"Just a plain simpleton that would eat out of anybody's hand,"Mackenzie grinned.
"Not a simpleton, lad; not a simpleton. But maybe soft in your ways ofdealin' with other men, lettin' 'em go when you ought to knocked 'emcold, the way you let Hall go the day you took his guns off of him.But we couldn't see deep in you, lad; you're no simpleton, lad--nosimpleton at all."
Tim spoke in soothing conciliation, as if he worked to salve over theold hurts of injustice, or as if he dealt with the mishap of a childto whom words were more comforting than balm. He was coming back tohis regular sheepman form, crafty, conciliatory; never advancing onefoot without feeling ahead with the other. But the new respect thathad come over him for Mackenzie could not be put wholly aside, eventhough Tim might have the disposition to do it. Tim's voice was stillsmall in his mouth, his manner softened by awe.
"You've shown the mettle of a sheepman," Tim said, "and more. There'llbe peace and quiet on this range now."
"I brought nothing but trouble to it. You had peace and quiet before Icame."
"Trouble was here, lad, but we dodged it. There wasn't a man of us hadthe courage to face it and put it down like you've done it. Carlsonand them Halls robbed me year in and year out, and stole the range Ipaid rent on from under my feet. Swan stole sheep from me all the timethat boy was runnin' them next him there--I miss about three hundredfrom the flock today."
"Reid sold them to him, but didn't get his money. He complained aboutit to Swan last night."
"He'd do it," nodded Tim; "his father before him done it. It runs inthe blood of them Reids to steal. I'll have them three hundred sheepback out of Swan's widow tomorrow."
"Is she over there with the sheep?"
"I didn't see her around."
"The poor creature's crazy from her hard usage and suffering. I thinksomebody ought to go over there and help her straighten things out."
"I'll see to it," Tim promised. "Yes, it must be done. Now that wilddevil's dead we must be neighborly with the widow and give her achance. I'll see to it tomorrow. Where's my Joan?"
"She's making some broth for my supper."
"That's right, that's right--she'll care for you, lad; I'll leave herhere with Rabbit to care for you. Sure. She was for you, all along. Icouldn't see it."
"Well, you've got it right this time," Mackenzie said.
Tim beamed. He rubbed his hands, great satisfaction in his face.
"I'll find somebody else for my Mary--we'll consider her no more," hesaid. "Let you go on with Joan in the bargain in place of Mary, andgive me three years for her, and the day you marry her I'll drive overto you a thousand sheep."
"Nothing doing," said Mackenzie.
"Two years, we'll say--two instead of three, John. Joan will be herown man in two years; she'll be twenty-one. And the day you marry herI'll make it fifteen hundred sheep."
"She's her own man now under the laws of this state, and I'm takingher without a single head of sheep. You can keep them all--Joan isenough for me."
Tim was a greatly injured man. His face lengthened
two inches, a lookof reproach came into his eyes; he seemed on the point of dissolvingin tears.
"You're not goin' to quit me and take away my girl, the best one of myflock, my ewe lamb, my Joan? I didn't think you'd turn on me likethat, lad; I didn't think you had it in your heart!"
"You took away Joan's ewe lambs, and her buck lambs, and all herlambs, more than a thousand of them, after she'd served you throughsun and storm and earned them like a man. No, I don't think I couldtrust you two years, Mr. Sullivan; I don't believe your memory wouldhold you to a bargain that long, seeing that it would be in thefamily, especially."
"I'll give Joan back her flock, to run it like she was runnin' it, andI'll put it in writin' with you both. Two years, we'll say, John--twoshort easy years."
"No."
"Don't you throw away your chances now, John, don't you do it, lad. Ifyou marry my Joan now I'll give you not a sheep, not one blind wether!But if you'll stay by me a year for her I'll give you a weddin' at theend of that time they'll put big in the papers at Cheyenne, and I'llhand over to you three thousand sheep, in your own name."
"I'm not thinking as much about sheep as I was three months ago," saidMackenzie, yawning as though he had grown tired of the subject. "Joanand I have made our plans; you can approve them or turn them down.We're going away when we're married."
"Goin' away!" said Tim, his voice betraying the hollowness of hisheart.
"But we're coming back----"
"Comin' back?" said Tim, gladness in every note.
"Joan's heart is in the sheep range--she couldn't tear it away if shetried. She thought she wanted to go, but I'll have hard work to gether farther than Jasper. Joan had the lonesomeness; she's cured now."
"She had, poor gerrel! I didn't see it, but I see it now. But you'llbe comin' back!"
"Yes. Joan and I belong on the sheep range--we're both too simple andconfiding to run around loose in the world."
Tim was looking at Mackenzie, his head tipped to one side a little inhis great, new interest, his greater, newer understanding.
"You'll come back and make it home?" said he.
"Home," Mackenzie nodded. "There's no other place that calls. You canwelcome us or turn us away, but we'll find a place on the range, andI've got money enough to buy us a little band of sheep."
"No need, lad, no need for that. What I have I'll divide with you theday you come home, for I've made a place in my heart for you that'sthe place of a son," said Tim.
Mackenzie knew the flockmaster had reached a point at last where hewould stand, writing or no writing, for there was the earnestness oftruth in his voice, the vibrant softness of affection. He gave theflockmaster his hand, saying no word. Tim took it between his own asif he held a woman's, and held it so while he spoke:
"And the place is here for you when you come back be it a year fromnow or five years. You're a sheepman now, John."
"And I'm more," said Mackenzie, with a contented sigh. "I'm asheepwoman's man."
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