With a directness quite equal to his own she questioned him about his reckless deed.
“Why did you do it?” she exclaimed in despair of his problem.
“I don’t know. Hanged if I do, especially now. Since seeing you I think I was crazy—crazy as a loon. If I’d done it for you, now, it wouldn’t have been so wild. You’re worth a man’s life. I’d die for you.”
This outburst of passion, so fierce and wild, thrilled the girl; she grew pale with comprehension of his mood. It meant that the sight of her lying there had replaced the old madness with a new one. She was unprepared for this furious outflaming of primitive admiration.
“You mustn’t talk like that to me,” she protested, as firmly as she could.
He sensed her alarm. “Don’t you be scared,” he said, gently. “I didn’t mean to jar you. I only meant that I didn’t know such women as you were in the world. I’d trust you. You’ve got steady eyes. You’d stick by the man that played his whole soul for you, I can see that. I come of pretty good stock. I reckon that’s why you mean so much to me. You get hold of me in a way I can’t explain.”
“Why don’t you fly?” she asked him. “Every minute you spend here increases your danger. The men may return at any moment.”
“That’s funny, too,” he answered, and a look of singular, musing tenderness fell over his face. “I’d rather sit here with you and take my chances.”
“But you must not! You are imperiling your life for nothing.”
“You’re mistaken there. I’m getting something every minute—something that will stay with me all my life. After I leave you it doesn’t matter. I came into the hills just naturally, the way the elk does. After that girl reported me, life didn’t count. Seeing you has changed me. It matters a whole lot to me this minute, and when I leave you it’s stormy sunset for me, sure thing.”