The Enemy Love

"Oh!" she sighed in admiration, and "Oh!" again, uneasily.

Nothing had been said about it; Jeff was the last person in the world to
spoil his triumph by commenting on it; but both of them knew that they
had violently changed places; that now it was she who was the limp
indoor-dweller, and he who was the ruddy ranger; that as he had admired
her at Flathead Lake, so now it was hers to admire, and his to be
serenely heroic.

She was not far from the worshiping sub-deb in her sighing, "How did
you get the scar?"

"That? Oh, nothing."

"Please tell me."

"Really and truly. Nothing at all. Just a drunken fellow with a knife,
playing the fool. I didn't have to touch him--quite sure he could have
given me a frightful beating and all that sort of thing. It was the Big
Chief who got rid of him."

"He--cut you? With a kniiiiiife? Ohhhhhhh!"

She ran to him, pityingly stroked the scar, looked down at him with
filmy eyes. Then she tried to retreat, but he retained her hand, glanced
up at her as though he knew her every thought. She felt weak. How could
she escape him? "Please!" she begged flutteringly.

If he held her hand another moment, she trembled, she'd be on his lap,
in his arms--lost. And he was holding it. He was---Oh, he was too old for her. Yes, and too paternal. But still---- Life
with Jeff would be protected, kindly, honorable.

Yet all the time she wanted, and stormily knew she wanted, to be fleeing
to the boy Milt, her mate; to run away with him, hand in hand,
discovering all the colored world, laughing at life, not afraid of
losing dignity. In fear of Jeff's very kindliness and honor, she jerked
her hand free. Then she tried to smile like a clever fencer.