heat.
His breath come fast an' faster, but he couldn't
say a damn—
He'd the feelin's of a panther an' the quiet of a
lamb.
An' his foot come creepin' for'ards an' he tetched
me with his boot
An' he whispered low an' anxious, an says he:
"Why don't ye shoot?''
An' the buck he see the time had come fer him an'