out
tonight--pour coal oil on the wagon and set it afire."

"Let 'em; I'll not be in it."

"They'll worry you night and day, kill your sheep, maybe kill you, if
you don't come away. It isn't worth it; dad was right about it. For
the sake of peace, let them have it, John."

Mackenzie stood in silence, looking the way Swan and his woman had
gone, the gun held as if ready to lift and fire at the showing of a
hat-crown over the next hill. He seemed to be considering the
situation. Joan studied his face with eager hopefulness, bending
forward a bit to see better in the failing light.

"They've got to be shown that a master has come to the sheep country,"
he said, in low voice, as if to himself. "I'll stay and prove it to
all of them at once."

Joan knew there was no use to argue or appeal. She dropped the matter
there, and Mackenzie put the gun away.

"I'm sorry I haven't anything to put on it," he said, looking at the
red welt on her neck.

"I'm sorry I missed her," said Joan.

"It isn't so much the sting of a blow, I know," he comforted, "as the
hurt of the insult. Never mind it, Joan; she's a vicious, wild woman,
jealous because Swam took notice of you."

"It was a great compliment!"

"I wish I had some balm for it that would cure it in a second, and
take away the memory of the way it was done," said he, very softly.

"I'll kill her," flared Joan.

"I don't like to hear you say that, Joan," he chided, and reached and
laid his hand consolingly upon the burning mark.

Joan caught her breath as if he had touched her skin with ice. He
withdrew his hand quickly, blaming himself for the rudeness of his
rough hand.

"You didn't hurt me, John," she said, her eyes downcast, the color of
warm blood playing over her face.

"I might have," he blamed himself, in such seriousness as if it were
the gravest matter he had risked, and not the mere touching of a
blood-red welt upon a simple maiden's neck.

"I'll be over early in the morning to see if you're all right," she
told him as she turned again to her horse.

"If you can come, even to show yourself on the hill," said he.

"Show myself? Why, a person would think you were worrying about me."

"I am, Joan. I wish you would give up herding sheep, let the share and
the prospect and all of it go, and have your father put a herder in to
run that band for you."

"They'll not hurt me; as mean as they are they'll not fight a woman.
Anyway, I'm not over the deadline."