"What do you want with it?"
"Never mind." He reached down and drew it from the folds of her skirt, where it had again fallen. Very gently he turned it so that the palm was up. Ugly blisters and a red seam showed where she had burned herself. He looked at her without speaking.
"It's nothing," she told him, a little hysterically.
For an instant her mind flashed back to the time when Buck Weaver had drawn the cactus spines out of that same hand.
His voice was rough with feeling. "I can see it isn't. And you got it for me—putting out the fire in my clothes. I reckon I cayn't thank you, you poor little tortured hand." He lifted the fingers to his lips and kissed them.
"Don't," she cried brokenly.
"Has it got to be this way always, Phyllie—you giving and me taking?" His hand tightened on hers ever so slightly, and a spasm of pain shot across her face. He looked at the burned fingers again tenderly. "Does it hurt pretty bad, girl?"
"I wish it was ten times as bad!" she broke out, with a sob. "You saved Phil's life—at the risk of your own. I wish I could tell you how I feel, what I think of you, how splendid you are." In default of which ability, she began to cry softly.
He wasted no more time. He did not ask her whether he might. With a gesture, his arm went around her and drew her to him.
"Let me tell what I think of you, instead, girl o' mine. I cayn't tell it, either, for that matter, but I reckon I can make out to show you, honey."