"Yes, but—I—I thought—" Lucy became unaccountably embarrassed. Suppose this strange rider would be offended. "Your clothes were—so torn.... And no wonder you were thrown—in those boots! ... So I thought I'd—"
"You thought I needed clothes as bad as grub," he said, bitterly. "I reckon that's so."
His look, more than his tone, cut Lucy; and involuntarily she touched his arm. "Oh, you won't refuse to take them! Please don't!"
At her touch a warmth came into his face. "Take them? I should smile I will."
He tried to reach down to lift the pack, but as it was obviously painful for him to bend, Lucy intercepted him.
"But you've had no breakfast," she protested. "Why not eat before you open that pack?"
"Nope. I'm not hungry.... Maybe I'll eat a little, after I dress up." He started to walk away, then turned. "Miss Bostil, have you been so good to every wanderin' rider you happened to run across?"
"Good!" she exclaimed, flushing. She dropped her eyes before his. "Nonsense. ... Anyway, you're the first wandering rider I ever met—like this."
"Well, you're good," he replied, with emotion. Then he walked away with slow, stiff steps and disappeared behind the willows in the little hollow.
Lucy uncoiled the rope on her saddle and haltered Sage King on the best grass near at hand. Then she opened the pack of supplies, thinking the while that she must not tarry here long.