"Where are you going?" the girl exclaimed.

"Up Bear Creek."

"It's twenty miles. You can't do it."

"Sure I can. Thanks for your kindness, Miss Sanderson. I'll return the
handkerchief some day," and with a touch swung round his pony.

"You're not going. I won't have it, and you wounded!"

He turned in the saddle, smiling at her with jaunty insouciance.

"I'll answer for Jim. He won't betray you," she promised, subduing her
pride.

"Thanks. I'll take your word for it, but I won't trouble your friend.
I've had all the Christian charity that's good for me this mo'ning," he
drawled.

At that she flamed out passionately: "Do you want me to tell you that I
_like_ you, knowing what you are? Do you want me to pretend that I feel
friendly when I hate you?"

"Do you want me to be under obligations to folks that hate me?" he came
back with his easy smile.

"You have lost a lot of blood. Your arm is still bleeding. You know I
can't let you go alone."