Mackenzie stood, gun half lifted, and watched them go without another shot, afraid to risk it lest he hit the woman. He turned to Joan, who stood by, white with anger, the empty revolver in her hand. "Are you hurt, Joan?" he asked, in foolish weakness, knowing very well that she was. "No, she didn't hurt me--but I'll kill her for it!" said Joan. She was trembling; her face was bloodless in the cold anger that shook her. There was a red welt on her neck, purple-marked on its ridge where the rawhide had almost cut her tender skin. "Swan Carlson has pulled his woman down to his savage level at last," Mackenzie said. "She's worse than he is; she's a range wolf!" "I believe she is. But it always happens that way when a person gets to going." "With those two and the Hall boys you'll not have a ghost of a chance to hold this range, John. You'd better let me help you begin working the sheep over toward my camp tonight." "No, I'm going to stay here." "Swan and that woman just rode through here to get the lay of your camp. More than likely they'll come over and burn you 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.