CHAPTER V
TIM SULLIVAN
"Yes, they call us flockmasters in the reports of the Wool Growers'Association, and in the papers and magazines, but we're nothing butsheepmen, and that's all you can make out of us."
Tim Sullivan spoke without humor when he made this correction in thename of his calling, sitting with his back to a haycock, eating hisdinner in the sun. Mackenzie accepted the correction with a nod ofunderstanding, sparing his words.
"So you want to be a flockmaster?" said Tim. "Well, there's worsecallin's a man, especially a young man, could take up. What put it inyour head to tramp off up here to see me? Couldn't some of themsheepmen down at Jasper use you?"
"I wanted to get into the heart of the sheep country for one thing,and several of my friends recommended you as the best sheepman on therange, for another. I want to learn under a master, if I learn atall."
"Right," Tim nodded, "right and sound. Do you think you've got thestuff in you to make a sheepman out of?"
"It will have to be a pretty hard school if I can't stick itthrough."
"Summers are all right," said Tim, reflectively, nodding away at thedistant hills, "and falls are all right, but you take it winter andearly spring, and it tries the mettle in a man. Blizzards andstarvation, and losses through pile-ups and stampedes, wolves and whatnot, make a man think sometimes he'll never go through it any more.Then spring comes, with the cold wind, and slush up to your ankles,and you out day and night lookin' after the ewes and lambs. Lambin'time is the hard time, and it's the time when a man makes it or loses,accordin' to what's in him to face hardship and work."
"I've heard about it; I know what I'm asking to go up against, Mr.Sullivan."
"You want to buy in, or take a band on shares?"
"I'd rather take a band on shares. If I put what little money I've gotinto it I'll go it alone."
"That's right; it's safer to let the other man take the risk. It ain'tfair to us sheepmen, but we have to do it to get men. Well, when wehit on a good man, it pays better than hirin' poor ones at fiftydollars a month and found. I've had old snoozers workin' for me thatthe coyotes eat the boots off of while they was asleep. You look kindof slim and light to tackle a job on the range."
Mackenzie made no defense of his weight, advancing no further argumentin behalf of his petition for a job. Sullivan measured him over withhis appraising eyes, saying nothing about the bruises he bore,although Mackenzie knew he was burning with curiosity to go into thematter of how and when he received them.
Sullivan was a man of calm benignity of face, a placid certainty ofhis power and place in the world; a rugged man, broad-handed, slow.His pleasure was in the distinction of his wealth, and not in any usethat he made of it for his own comfort or the advancement of thoseunder his hand. Even so, he was of a type superior to the general runof flockmasters such as Mackenzie had met.
"I'll give you a job helpin' me on this hay for a few days, and kindof try you out," Tim agreed at last. "I don't want to discourage youat the start, but I don't believe you got the mettle in you to make aflockmaster, if you want to call it that, out of."
"All right; I'll help you on the hay. Before I start in though, I'dlike to borrow a saddle-horse from you to take a ride down the creekto Swan Carlson's place. I wouldn't be long."
"Carlson's place? Do you know Swan Carlson?"
Mackenzie told in few words how much he knew of Carlson, and hisreason for desiring to visit him. Tim's wonder was too large tocontain at hearing this news. He got up, his eyes staring in plainincredulity, his mouth open a bit between surprise and censure, itseemed. But he said nothing for a little while; only stood and lookedMackenzie over again, with more careful scrutiny than before.
"I'll go down with you," he announced, turning abruptly away to getthe horses.
It was evident to Mackenzie that Sullivan was bewildered between doubtand suspicion as they rode toward Carlson's ranch, which the sheepmansaid was about seven miles away. But he betrayed nothing of histhoughts in words, riding in silence mainly, looking at the groundlike a man who had troubles on his mind.
The silence of abandonment was over Carlson's house as they rode up. Afew chickens retreated from the yard to the cover of the barn in thehaste of panic, their going being the only sound of life about theplace. The door through which Mackenzie had left was shut; heapproached it without hesitation--Tim Sullivan lingering back as if indoubt of their reception--and knocked. No answer. Mackenzie tried thedoor, finding it unlocked; pushed it open, entered.
Sullivan stood outside, one mighty hand on the jamb, his body to oneside under protection of the house, his head put cautiously andcuriously round to see, leaving a fairway for Swan Carlson should herise from a dark corner, shake himself like an old grizzly, andcharge.
"Is he there?" Tim asked, his voice a strained whisper.
Mackenzie did not reply. He stood in the middle of the room where hiscombat with Swan had taken place, among the debris of broken dishes,wrecked table, fallen stovepipe and tinware, looking about him withgrim interest. There was nobody in the other room, but the blood fromSwan's hurt trailed across the floor as if he had been helped to thebed. Tim took his courage in both hands and came just inside thedoor.
"Man! Look at the blood!" he said.
"There's nobody here," Mackenzie told him, turning to go.
"She's took him to the doctor," said Tim.
"Where is that?"
"There's a kind of a one over on the Sweetwater, sixty miles fromhere, but there's no good one this side of Jasper."
"He'll die on the way," Mackenzie said conclusively.
"No such luck," said Tim. "Look! There's the chain he tied that womanof his up with."
"We'd better go back and get at that hay," Mackenzie said. "There'snothing I can do for Carlson."
"There's the table leg you hit him with!" Tim picked it up, pluckingoff the red hairs which clung to it, looking at Mackenzie withstartled eyes. Mackenzie mounted his horse.
"You'd better shut the door," he called back as he rode away.
Tim caught up with him half a mile on the way back to the hay-field.The sheepman seemed to have outrun his words. A long time he rodebeside Mackenzie in silence, turning a furtive eye upon him across hislong nose now and then. At last it burst from him:
"You done it!" he said, with the astonished pleasure of a man assuredagainst his doubts.
Mackenzie checked his horse, looking at Tim in perplexed inquiry.
"What are you talking about?" he asked.
"You laid him out--Swan Carlson--you done it! Man!"
"Oh, you're still talking about that," Mackenzie said, a bit vexed.
"It would be worth thousands to the rest of us sheepmen on this rangeif he never comes back."
"Why didn't some of you handle him long ago? A man of your build oughtto be able to put a dent in Carlson."
"I'll fight any man that stands on two feet," said Tim, with suchsincerity that it could not have been taken for a boast, "you can askabout me far and near, but I draw the line at the devil. I've stood upwith four men against me, with meat cleavers and butcher knives intheir hands, when I used to work as a sheep butcher back in thepackin' house in Chicago, and I've come through with my life. But themwas friends of mine," he sighed; "a man knew how they lived. SwanCarlson's got a wolf's blood in his veins. He ain't a human man."
"And this man is worth three hundred thousand dollars!" thoughtMackenzie. And he knew, also, that the greatest treasure that theflockmaster could count was one not so greatly appreciated as athousand sheep--that brave, ambitious little rebel, Joan.
"Maybe you've got the makin' of a sheepman in you," Tim said,thoughtfully, as they came in sight of the hay. "I've got an old man Icould put you under till the dogs got used to you and you learnt theirways and found out something among the thousand things a man's got toknow if he intends to make a success of runnin' sheep. Old Dad Frazercould put you onto the tricks of the trade quicker than any man Iknow. Maybe you _have_ g
ot the makin' of a sheepman in you. I'll haveto think it over."
Tim took the four days they were at the hay to think about it. At theend of that time, with the hay in stack and the mowing-machine loadedinto the wagon for the rough journey to the ranch, Tim unburdened hismind.
"I've decided to try you out, John," he announced, but shaking hishead as he spoke, as if he doubted the wisdom of the venture. "I'llleave you here with Dad Frazer--he's over on Horsethief, about sixmiles across from Joan's range--and let him break you in. Youunderstand, you don't go in on shares till you're able to handle atleast two thousand head."
"I agree on that."
"And then there's another little point." Tim shifted his feet, jerkedup his trousers, rubbed his chin in a truly Irish way. "That girl ofmine, Joan, she's got it in her head she wants to be a lady, and go tocollege and put on agonies. No use in it, as I tell her. No girlthat's got money needs any of the education stuff. I got on withoutit, and I made my money without it. Joan she wants you to give hersome lessons. She made me promise I wouldn't take you on unless you'dagree to that as part of our conditions and contract."
Mackenzie had no need to put on a face of thinking it over seriously;he was entirely sincere in the silence he held while he revolved it inhis mind. He doubted whether more learning would bring to Joan thecontentment which she lacked in her present state. It might only openthe door to a greater longing, or it might disillusion her when herfeet had left these wild, free hills, and set a pang in her heart likea flame for the things which knowledge closes the door against thereturn for evermore.
"I'll tell you how to handle her to be rid of her soon," said Tim,winking craftily, seeing how the wind stood. "Discourage her, tell hershe ain't got the mind for books and Latin and mathematics. All themathematics she needs is enough to count her sheep and figure herclip. Tell her to put books out of her head and stick to the range,marry some good sheepman if one turns up to her taste, or pass themall up if she likes. But tell her to stick to sheep, whatever shedoes. She can be the sheep queen of this country in fifteen years;she's as handy with 'em now as I am, and I tell you, John, that'ssomething that's hard for me to say, even of my own girl. But she is;she's as good a sheepman right now as I am or ever will be. But youdon't need to tell her that."
"I don't believe she'll take it, but it's the soundest advice I couldgive her," Mackenzie said.
"Work up to it gradual, lad; it can't be done in a day. Make thelessons hard, pile the Latin on heavy. Lord, I remember it, back inthe old country, old Father MacGuire layin' it on the lads under histhumb. Devil a word of it sticks to me now, not even the word forsheep. I tried to remember some of it when they sent me up to thelegislature in Cheyenne; I wanted to knock 'em over. But it had allleaked out. Discourage her, man; discourage her."
"Yes, that might be the greatest kindness I could do her in the end,"Mackenzie said.
"I'll drop you off over there; you can stay in camp tonight withCharley and Joan. Tomorrow I'll come back and take you out to DadFrazer's camp, and you can begin your schoolin' for the makin' of amaster. But begin early to discourage her, John; begin at her early,lad."