She caught at the food eagerly but the firm hand of the stranger withdrew it.
"Cautiously, at first," he said, breaking off little bits, and feeding her as he would a baby.
"I'll be danged if anybody'll let me do any thing fer that gal," scolded Joe. "Everybody meddles."
"Do something for me, then," said Nat. "I shouldn't object to a bit of bread and meat, if you've got it to spare."
Joe, who was only discontented when he could not be useful to somebody, turned his wallet inside out in his generous search for provisions.
"Be careful," again said the calm voice of the Doctor, "do not waste any thing. We have got to make our way to the train on that limited supply. Joe, you have water in your canteen? Mix a little of this brandy with it and give him."
The hunter ate and drank sparingly, for he was well aware of the necessity of prudence; it was a feast to him to see the light and color coming back into the maiden's face. Although he had fasted much longer than she, he was inured to just such hardships, and was much the least exhausted of the two. Their sufferings had been chiefly from thirst, increased by the heat and the necessity for constant exertion.
They had been disappointed in finding the stream which Nat had been certain was within marching distance on their route, the previous day. They had walked all day, and far into the night, in hopes of reaching it, and finding perhaps an antelope or even a stray prairie-dog upon which they might sup.
Of course the hunter was obliged to shorten his steps to those of his little friend; and she, tasking her energies to the utmost, would not say that she must pause for rest, until she finally sunk down in the darkness, unable to proceed further.
That was a strange night in the experience of both. The young girl, clinging to him like a child to its mother, was cherished as sacredly. She complained neither of hunger or thirst, nor of her fear of prowling savages and animals, but as the wild wind of midnight grew more chilly, she shrunk closer to him; he took her to his breast, wrapped about her his own leather jacket, and she slept away all memory of danger and fatigue. We can not protect and shelter any helpless thing without softening toward it, even if it be troublesome and stupid—how, then, could Nat Wolfe care for this most beautiful and innocent maiden, as circumstances obliged him to do, without feeling the growing of a golden chord binding their interests together in bands never more to be broken? The soft cheek upon his shoulder, the softer bosom close to his own, returned the sacrifice of his jacket, by kindling a warmth in his heart which bid defiance to the cold wind.