“Are you giving up?” she inquired, trying to put scorn in her tone. Then she seated herself.
“Where is the sense in both of us—”
“You had better save your strength,” she interrupted.
He tried to sit up.
“Lie down!” she ordered.
He sank obediently, and began to smile.
When she saw that, she smiled too, and unexpectedly took his hand. “Listen, friend,” said she. “Nobody shall get you, and nobody shall get me. Now take some more brandy.”
“It must be noon,” said the cow-puncher, when she had drawn her hand away from him. “I remember it was dark when—when—when I can remember. I reckon they were scared to follow me in so close to settlers. Else they would have been here.”
“You must rest,” she observed.
She broke the soft ends of some evergreen, and putting them beneath his head, went to the horses, loosened the cinches, took off the bridles, led them to drink, and picketed them to feed. Further still, to leave nothing undone which she could herself manage, she took the horses' saddles off to refold the blankets when the time should come, and meanwhile brought them for him. But he put them away from him. He was sitting up against a rock, stronger evidently, and asking for cold water. His head was fire-hot, and the paleness beneath his swarthy skin had changed to a deepening flush.