That was categorical. Billy's wits did not respond to this sort of emergency very quickly. He did not want to be rude; he did not care to lose his men. Molly looked down.
"Come here and tie my shoestring," she commanded, holding out her foot, and gripping the harness with both hands.
Billy did not remember that he had ever seen so small a foot. He looked, fascinated.
"Well!" she said impatiently.
He raised his head and gazed plump into the imperious depths of a pair of blue eyes. His anger melted. He approached and attempted to tie the shoe.
None but Molly ever knew how hard that horse was kicked by the other little shoe. Indeed, no one knew at all how it happened. Some of the eye-witnesses theorized concerning bumblebees. Others said horseflies. As to the main facts, there was no doubt—that he, the horse, gave a sudden startled plunge; that she, the girl, screamed slightly and started to fall; that he, Billy Knapp, caught her full in his arms, held her the fraction of a second, and set her lightly back on the again motionless animal.
Molly caught her breath and steadied herself on Billy's shoulder. Three men officiously held the horse's head.
"My!" she gasped. "I'd like to be as strong as that!"
Billy whirled on the axe gang with a great bluster.
"Yere, you fellers!" he shouted. "What 're y' standin' around yere for? Take them hosses up in th' brush behind my shack, an' cut th' lady some timber!"