With a deep sigh, Buck lifted his face from the water and regarded her gratefully.
“That just about saved my life,” he murmured.
Mary Thorne carefully set down the improvised water-bucket, its contents much depleted, and taking out her handkerchief, soaked it thoroughly.
“I’m awfully stupid about first aid,” she said. “But your head must be badly cut, and—”
“Don’t,” he protested, as the moist bit of cambric touched his hair. “You’ll spoil it.”
“As if that mattered!” she retorted. “Just rest your head on your arms; it’ll be easier.”
With deft, gentle touches, she cleaned away the blood and grime, parting his thick hair now and then with delicate care. Her hands were steady now, and having steeled herself for anything, the sight of a jagged, ugly-looking cut on his scalp did not make her flinch. She even bent forward a little to examine it more closely, and saw that a ridge of clotted blood had temporarily stopped its oozing.
“I think I’d better let it alone,” she said aloud. “I 220 might start it bleeding again. How—how did it happen?”
Buck raised his head and regarded her with a slow, thoughtful stare.
“I fell off the cliff back there,” he replied at length.