But this time the sobs got under his thick, leathery skin. They pierced still deeper--into the core of him, into the heart of him. His eyes upon her sagging form; upon the hair which so lately had been blown across his cheek as he bore her away, insensible, over his shoulder; upon the small hands crowded against her face; he felt an ache that was like the ague. And yet there was a significant difference. The pains of the fever were personal. They concerned him and his own body. But now he was hurt not because of himself, but because she was hurt--this other. That was difficult to understand. The more so because, in reality, he had his own grievous wound. She was crying because he had killed that pink-cheeked furriner--crying because she had cared for the man. For a moment that memory did serve to harden him, but--she kept on crying. She was hurt. There was no pretense about it. She was suffering like a wounded pet. The cause of her grief did not matter. Bud’s heart went out to her as it never had to any other living thing. Dropping his rifle to the ground he rose. “Roxie,” he faltered, “don’ take on like thet.” She did not move. She gave no indication that she heard. He took a step nearer, his long arms hanging loosely by his side; his face troubled. “I’m a-talkin’ to yuh, Roxie,” he said. There was, in his voice, the deep tenderness of a lover and of a father, too. Huddled in a heap as she was, she looked such a tiny body. He could have picked her up without effort. And he ached to do just that--to pick her up and hold her close. He felt that so he could shield her from harm. Because she did not protest, he ventured still nearer. He was at her side now, still standing erect. “Gawd!” he said, “Gawd, how I love yuh!” At that Roxie sprang--upright and sideways towards Bud’s rifle. But Bud was there before her. He moved instinctively. That gun was as much a part of him as his right hand. He snatched it from the ground, and as he did so the girl recoiled. The two faced each other again; Roxie shrinking away in fear at the revenge he might take for this attempt, Bud feeling more helpless with the rifle in his hands than without it. She had tried to get the gun. If she had succeeded, she would have killed him. She hated him as fiercely as that. A woman is not often tempted to kill, but when she is so tempted she is dangerous. And yet the realization of this hatred, instead of rousing him to aggressive action, instead of urging him to retaliation as ordinarily it would, had quite the opposite effect. It took all the spirit out of him--all his courage and high hopes. His arms grew limp. The hills about him, instead of offering protection, hemmed him in like prison walls. No use now in climbing them or crossing with her to the valleys beyond. With her ready to spring upon him, whether he was there or here made little difference. Whether he was here or anywhere made no difference now.