Seaforth glanced down at his comrade, smiling curiously. "I may tell you some time—but not now. You do well to be thankful, Harry, and do you believe that any woman would think the worse of you because you cut down the man who meant to take your life, you big, great-natured fool?"
Alton sighed. "Well," he said very slowly, "perhaps it is better over, because that and other things would have to be told; but though I had only an axe against his pistol I can't get that man's face out of my memory."
Seaforth's face was somewhat awry just then. "You can tell your story without a blush—if you think it necessary, but I have not the courage to tell mine—and the silence may cost me very dear," he said.
Alton seemed a trifle bewildered. "When you can I'll listen, but there's nothing you could tell me would make any difference between you and me."
Seaforth laughed mirthlessly. "I'm glad of that, but it wasn't you I was thinking of just then," he said. "Still it seems to me that we are both a little off our balance this morning, and may be sorry for it afterwards."
Alton rose up and moved somewhat stiffly towards the window, where he leaned against the log casing, looking out greedily upon the sunlit valley. Then he limped back to the table and rested both hands upon it.
"I figure it's because I haven't used it, but this leg doesn't feel the same as it used to," he said. "Did it strike you that I walked kind of stiffly?"
Seaforth knew that the moment he feared had come, but he felt his courage fail him and turned his head aside. "I was not watching you," he said.
Alton, who appeared a trifle perturbed, sat down, and glanced at the partly finished meal upon the table disgustedly. "Tell them to take those things away, and bring me something a man can eat. Then I want my long boots and the nicest clothes I have."
"They will not be much use to you. You're not going out for another week, anyway."