Sullivan stood outside, one mighty hand on the jamb, his body to one side under protection of the house, his head put cautiously and curiously round to see, leaving a fairway for Swan Carlson should he rise from a dark corner, shake himself like an old grizzly, and charge. "Is he there?" Tim asked, his voice a strained whisper. Mackenzie did not reply. He stood in the middle of the room where his combat with Swan had taken place, among the debris of broken dishes, wrecked table, fallen stovepipe and tinware, looking about him with grim interest. There was nobody in the other room, but the blood from Swan's hurt trailed across the floor as if he had been helped to the bed. Tim took his courage in both hands and came just inside the door. "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 from here, 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 woman of his up with." "We'd better go back and get at that hay," Mackenzie said. "There's nothing I can do for Carlson." "There's the table leg you hit him with!" Tim picked it up, plucking off the red hairs which clung to it, looking at Mackenzie with startled 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 rode beside Mackenzie in silence, turning a furtive eye upon him across his long nose now and then. At last it burst from him: "You done it!" he said, with the astonished pleasure of a man assured against 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 range if he never comes back." "Why didn't some of you handle him long ago? A man of your build ought to be able to put a dent in Carlson." "I'll fight any man that stands on two feet," said Tim, with such sincerity that it could not have been taken for a boast, "you can ask about me far and near, but I draw the line at the devil. I've stood up with four men against me, with meat cleavers and butcher knives in their hands, when I used to work as a sheep butcher back in the packin' house in Chicago, and I've come through with my life. But them was friends of mine," he sighed; "a man knew how they lived. Swan Carlson's got a wolf's blood in his veins. He ain't a human man."