y. Quickly unsnapping the chain from it he returned
and pried out the wooden plug, slowly turning the keg until water began
to flow through the hole and trickle down to the sand. Miss Shields took a
small handkerchief from her waist and unfolded it, to be stopped by Bill.

"Don't spoil that, miss!" he hastily exclaimed. "Take one of mine. They
ain't worth much, and besides, they're a whole lot bigger."

"Thank you, but this is better," she replied, smiling as she regarded
the dusty neck-kerchief which he eagerly held out to her. She wet the
bit of clean linen and Bill followed her as she stepped to the side of
the outlaw, holding the keg for her and thinking that the sheriff was
not the only thoroughbred to bear the name of Shields. He turned the
keg for her as she needed water, and she bathed the wound carefully,
pushing back the long hair which persisted in getting in her way, all
the time vehemently declining the eager offers of assistance from her
companions. The Orphan had involuntarily raised his hand to stop her,
feeling foolish at so much attention given to so trivial a wound and not
at all accustomed to such things, especially from women with wonderful
deep, black eyes.

"Please do not bother me," she commanded, pushing his hand aside. "You
can at least let me do this little thing, when you have done so much, or
I shall think you selfish."

He stood as a bad boy stands when unexpectedly rewarded for some good
deed, uncomfortable because of the ridiculous seriousness given to his
gash, and ashamed because he was glad of the attention. He tried not to
look at her, but somehow his eyes would not stray from her face, her heavy
mass of black hair and her wonderful eyes.

"You make me think that I'm really hurt," he feebly expostulated as he
capitulated to her deft hands. "Now, if it was a real wound, why it might
be all right. But, pshaw, all this fuss and feathers about a scratch!"

"Indeed!" she cried, dropping the stained handkerchief to the ground
as she took another from her dress, plastering his hair back with her
free hand. "I suppose you would rather have what you call a real wound!
You should be thankful that it is no worse! Why, just the tiniest bit
more, and you would have--" she shuddered as she thought of it and turned
quickly away and tore a strip of linen from her skirt. Straightening up
and facing him again she ripped off the trimming and carefully plucked
the loose threads from it. Folding it i