He was always in fear of dropping it, or crushing it with his man's strength, or something.

He liked them--at a safe distance.

He would chuck one under the chin, or feel diffidently the soft little cheek, but a closer familiarity scared him.

Yet when this baby wriggled its other arm loose and demanded him to take, Bud reached out and grasped its plump little red-sweatered body firmly under the armpits and drew it forth, squirming with eagerness.
"Well, I'll tell the world I don't blame yuh for wanting to git outa that hog's nest," said Bud, answering the baby's gleeful chuckle.
Freed from his detaining grip on her shoulder, the squaw ducked unexpectedly and scuttled away down the trail as fast as her old legs would carry her; which was surprisingly speedy for one of her bulk.

Bud had opened his mouth to ask her again where she had gotten that baby.