shot off the end of one of his fingers. Then, the Kid declared, he had
made Dynamite rear and strike the Mexican to the ground with his
forefeet and then trample him until he was so dead that he 'd never
shoot anybody else's finger off.

Madge was filled with horror and admiration and pity, and begged to be
allowed to see and bind up the mutilated finger. But he refused with
superior indifference, clinched his bleeding finger in his fist and
said it was n't anything and did n't hurt, anyway. Madge's mother
called her away, and straightway there appeared at my door a boy with
pale face, quivering lips, and tear-filled eyes, holding up a bloody
hand. I bound up the wound, which was a clean cut chipping off the end
of one finger, and he buried his face in my lap and cried. Soothing
and cuddling him, for somehow I felt that was what the child needed, I
asked:

"How did you hurt yourself, Kid?"

"I was making a peg to hang my saddle on, and I chopped my finger with
the hatchet."

I said nothing, but soothed and cuddled him the more, and he sobbed at
my knee in sheer enjoyment of the luxury of being babied. After that I
think he took occasion to hurt himself upon every possible opportunity
in order that he might come to my room to be taken care of and petted
and comforted. He left all his swagger and bluster and bravado
outside, and I babied him to his heart's content, feeling sure that it
was the first time in all his dozen years that this child's right had
come to him. But he did not allow these private seasons of relaxation,
which he trusted me not to betray, to interfere with his double