butcher's block, and heaved the
fellow over on his back. The moonlight revealed his dusty features
clearly, but Mackenzie brought the lantern to make it doubly sure.

"He's not the man I thought he was," said he. "I think this fellow's
name is Matt Hall. He's the sheep-killer you've heard about.
Look--he's all over blood--there's wool on his shirt."

"Matt Hall, huh?" said Reid. He wiped the butcher knife on the dead
sheep-killer's shirt, making a little whistling, reflective sound
through his teeth. "I'll have to scour that knife before we cut bacon
with it in the morning," he said.

CHAPTER XIV

THE LONESOMENESS

"He's got the lonesomeness," said Dad, "and I tell you, John, when
that gits a hold of a man he ain't responsible. It's the same as
shuttin' a man up in jail to break him off of booze--say, he'll claw
the rocks out of the wall with his finger nails to git out where he
can take a snort."

"I never had the lonesomeness, so I don't know, but there's something
the matter with the kid."

"Yes, I see him tearin' around the country ridin' the head off of that
horse, never lookin' where he's goin' any more than a bat. He's been
clean over to Four Corners after the mail twice this week. A feller
must want a letter purty bad when he'll go to all that fuss for it."

"I'm afraid it's going to be hard for him; he hasn't any more than
bitten into his three years yet; he don't really know how they
taste."

"It'll break him; he'll go all to pieces, I tell you John. When the
lonesomeness takes a hold of a feller that way something pops in his
head after a while; then he either puts a bullet through his heart or
settles down and gits fat. That feller ain't got it in him to put on
loco fat."

Dad had slicked himself up pretty well that day before cutting across
the range for a chat with Mackenzie. His operations with the
sheep-shears on his fuzzy whiskers had not been uniform, probably due
to the lack of a mirror. Dad trusted to the feel of it when he had no
water by to look into and guide his hand, and this time he had cut
close to the skin in several places, displaying his native color
beneath the beard. But whatever he lacked in his chin-hedge he made up
for in careful arrangement of his truly beautiful hair.

There was a sniff of perfume about him, a nosegay of wild flowers
pinned in the pocket of his shirt. Mackenzie marveled over these
refinements in the old man's everyday appearance, but left it to