ickening feeling.
Are you hurt?"

He shook his head.

"I thought you were broken in two," he muttered.. "We both fell right
on top of you. Ugh!"

He sat down on the tree and rested his head on his bloodstained hands,
and Hazel saw that he was quivering from head to foot. She got up and
went over to him.

"Are you sure you aren't hurt?" she asked again.

He looked up at her; big sweat drops were gathering on his face.

"Hurt? No," he murmured; "I'm just plain scared. You looked as if you
were dead, lying there so white and still."

[Illustration: "Hurt? No," he murmured; "I'm just plain scared."]

He reached out one long arm and drew her up close to him.

"Little person," he whispered, "if you just cared one little bit as
much as I do, it would be all right. Look at me. Just the thought of
what might have happened to you has set every nerve in my body jumping.
I'm Samson shorn. Why can't you care? I'd be gooder than gold to
_you_."

She drew herself away from him without answering--not in fear, but
because her code of ethics, the repressive conventions of her whole
existence urged her to do so in the face of a sudden yearning to draw
his bloody face up close to her and kiss it. The very thought, the
swift surge of the impulse frightened her, shocked her. She could not
understand it, and so she took refuge behind the woman instinct to hold
back, that strange feminine paradox which will deny and shrink from the
dominant impulses of life. And Roaring Bill made no effort to hold
her. He let her go, and fumbled for a handkerchief to wipe his
glistening face. And presently he went over to where a little stream
bubbled among the tree roots and washed his hands and face. Then he
got a clean shirt out of his war bag and disappeared into the brush to
change. When he came out he was himself again, if a bit sober in
expression.

He finished his packing without further words. Not till the pack
horses were ready, and Silk saddled for her, did he speak again. Then
he cast a glance at the dead bear.

"By Jove!" he remarked. "I'm about to forget my tomahawk."

He poked tentatively at the furry carcass with his toe. Hazel came up
and took a curious survey of fallen Bruin. Bill laid hold of the
hatchet and wrenched it loose.

"I've hunted more or less all my life," he observed, "and I've seen
bear under many different conditions. But this is the first time I
ever saw a bear tackle anybody without c