he bacon, and sent
Charley to the wagon for a loaf of bread.

"We don't have to bake bread in this camp, that's one blessing," she
said. "Mother keeps us supplied. Some of these sheepherders never
taste anything but their cold-water biscuits for years at a time."

"It must get kind of tiresome," Mackenzie reflected, thinking of his
own efforts at bread-making on the road.

"It's too heavy to carry around in the craw," said Joan.

Charley watched Mackenzie curiously as he ate, whispering once to his
sister, who flushed, turned her eyes a moment on her visitor, and then
seemed to rebuke the lad for passing confidences in such impolite way.
Mackenzie guessed that his discolored neck and bruised face had been
the subject of the boy's conjectures, but he did not feel pride enough
in his late encounter to speak of it even in explanation. Charley
opened the way to it at last when Joan took the breakfast things back
to the wagon.

"Have you been in a fight?" the boy inquired.

"Not much of a one," Mackenzie told him, rather wishing that the
particulars might be reserved.

"Your neck's black like somebody'd been chokin' you, and your face is
bunged up some, too. Who done it?"

"Do you know Swan Carlson?" Mackenzie inquired, turning slowly to the
boy.

"Swan Carlson?" Charley's face grew pale at the name; his eyes started
in round amazement. "You couldn't never 'a' got away from Swan; he
choked two fellers to death, one in each hand. No man in this country
could whip one side of Swan."

"Well, I got away from him, anyhow," said Mackenzie, in a manner that
even the boy understood to be the end of the discussion.

But Charley was not going to have it so. He jumped up and ran to meet
Joan as she came from the wagon.

"Mr. Mackenzie had a fight with Swan Carlson--that's what's the matter
with his neck!" he said. There was unbounded admiration in the boy's
voice, and exultation as if the distinction were his own. Here before
his eyes was a man who had come to grips with Swan Carlson, and had
escaped from his strangling hands to eat his breakfast with as much
unconcern as if he had no more than been kicked by a mule.

Joan came on a little quicker, excitement reflected in her lively
eyes. Mackenzie was filling his pipe, which had gone through the
fight in his pocket in miraculous safety--for which he was duly
grateful--ashamed of his bruises, now that the talk of them had
brought them to Joan's notice again.

"I hope