She was not one to see the dull gray side of life’s little cloud for long. The instant they reached the improvised camp she asked after the injured person and was not surprised to find that it was Bill.
“That bear,” Bill drawled as she dressed the rather deep wounds on his arms and chest, “took an unfair advantage of me. He could run a lot faster’n any man. And he ran the wrong way. Funny part was, when he got up with me, he wanted to hug me. If he hadn’t been badly hurt, he’d have killed me.”
“If you’d left him alone in the first place, probably he wouldn’t have bothered you,” Mary said soberly.
“No-o, probably not,” Bill replied ruefully.
“Oh, well,” one of the hunters consoled him, “you’ll have his skin for a rug back there in your cabin this winter.”
“Not for me,” Bill exploded. “I’ve been cold long enough. That cabin leaks air. Soon’s I get back I’ll be startin’ for old Alabam’, or at least some place that’s warm.”
Mary frowned but said nothing. Already she had come to love that valley where their cabin stood by the little lake. If it was her good fortune to return there in safety she would not ask for more. As for Bill, he had, she thought, brought all his troubles upon himself. But Bill was wounded and ill. What he needed, at the moment, was kindness and gentle care, not advice.
That night Mary and Mark sat down for some time beside a glowing campfire. Bill was resting well, would sleep, they thought, quietly. The others, too, had retired.
“Mark,” the girl’s tone was sober, “I’ve always wanted adventure. Most young people want adventure in one form or another, I guess. But when it comes—”
“It doesn’t seem so wonderful after all,” Mark laughed low.