e over there was tellin' me he's put me down in his book
for a killin'. I thought I'd give him a chance to get it over with if
he meant it."

"Has Carlson been over?"

"No, I rode over there the other evening. Say, is that the woman you
found chained up when you struck this country?"

"She's the one."

Mackenzie looked at Reid curiously as he answered. There was something
of quick eagerness in the young man's inquiry, a sudden light of a new
interest in his face, in sharp contrast with the black mood of a
moment before.

"She looks like an Ibsen heroine," said Reid. "Take that woman out of
this country and dress her right, and she'd be a queen."

"You'd better keep away from there," said Mackenzie, dryly.

"Oh, I guess I can take care of Swan if you could," Reid returned,
with a certain easy insolence, jerking his hip to hitch his gun around
in suggestive movement.

Mackenzie dropped the matter without more words, seeing too plainly
the humor of the youth. Maybe Dad had diagnosed his ailment aright,
but to Mackenzie it appeared something more than plain lonesomeness.
The notoriety attending the killing of Matt Hall had not been good for
Reid. He wanted more of it, and a bigger audience, a wider field.

If this was a taste of the adventure of the West's past romantic
times, Mackenzie felt that he was lucky he had come too late to share
it. His own affair with Swan Carlson had been sordid enough, but this
unlucky embroilment in which Reid had killed a man was a plain
misfortune to the hero of the fight. He told Reid of Dad's request.

"You go and run his sheep for him," Reid suggested. "It'll take you a
little nearer Joan."

This he added as with studied sneer, his face flushing darkly, his
thin mouth twisted in an ugly grin.

Mackenzie passed it, but not without the hurt of the unkind stab
showing in his face. It was so entirely unjustified as to be cruel,
for Mackenzie was not in Reid's way even to the extent of one lurking,
selfish thought. Since Reid had saved his life from Matt Hall's
murderous hands, Mackenzie had withdrawn even his most remote hope in
regard to Joan. Before that he had spun his thread of dreams, quite
honestly, and with intent that he would not have denied, but since,
not at all.

He owed Reid too much to cross him with Joan; he stepped aside,
denying himself a thought of her save only in relation of teacher and
pupil, trying to convince himself that it was better in the end for
J