“Yes,” he repeated. “Only five miles. But it’s fightin’ to turn around.” Half aware that he was becoming light-headed, he looked from the rock to her and from her to the rock with dilating eyes. “We can hold it together,” she said. “You must get on your horse.” She took his handkerchief from round his neck, knotting it with her own, and to make more bandage she ran to the roll of clothes behind his saddle and tore in halves a clean shirt. A handkerchief fell from it, which she seized also, and opening, saw her own initials by the hem. Then she remembered: she saw again their first meeting, the swollen river, the overset stage, the unknown horseman who carried her to the bank on his saddle and went away unthanked--her whole first adventure on that first day of her coming to this new country--and now she knew how her long-forgotten handkerchief had gone that day. She refolded it gently and put it back in his bundle, for there was enough bandage without it. She said not a word to him, and he placed a wrong meaning upon the look which she gave him as she returned to bind his shoulder. “It don’t hurt so much,” he assured her (though extreme pain was clearing his head for the moment, and he had been able to hold the cliff from turning). “Yu’ must not squander your pity.” “Do not squander your strength,” said she. “Oh, I could put up a pretty good fight now!” But he tottered in showing her how strong he was, and she told him that, after all, he was a child still. “Yes,” he slowly said, looking after her as she went to bring his horse, “the same child that wanted to touch the moon, I guess.” And during the slow climb down into the saddle from a rock to which she helped him he said, “You have got to be the man all through this mess.” She saw his teeth clinched and his drooping muscles compelled by will; and as he rode and she walked to lend him support, leading her horse by a backward-stretched left hand, she counted off the distance to him continually--the increasing gain, the lessening road, the landmarks nearing and dropping behind; here was the tree with the wasp-nest gone; now the burned cabin was passed; now the cottonwoods at the ford were in sight. He was silent, and held to the saddle-horn, leaning more and more against his two hands clasped over it; and just after they had made the crossing he fell, without a sound slipping to the grass, and his descent broken by her. But it started the blood a little, and she dared not leave him to seek help. She gave him the last of the flask and all the water he craved. Revived, he managed to smile. “Yu’ see, I ain’t worth keeping.”