But she stood looking at him with great eyes of gratitude, and he looked at her amazed that they were both alive, and scarcely understanding all that had happened.
The girl broke the stillness.
"You are what they call a 'tenderfoot,'" she said significantly.
"Yes," he assented humbly, "I guess I am.

I couldn't have shot it to save anybody's life." "You are a tenderfoot, and you couldn't shoot," she continued eulogistically, as if it were necessary to have it all stated plainly, "but you--you are what my brother used to call 'a white man.' You couldn't shoot; but you could risk your life, and hold that coat, and look death in the face.

_You_ are no tenderfoot." There was eloquence in her eyes, and in her voice there were tears.

She turned away to hide if any were in her eyes.

But the man put out his hand on her sure little brown one, and took it firmly in his own, looking down upon her with his own eyes filled with tears of which he was not ashamed.
"And what am I to say to you for saving my life ?" he said.
"I?
O, that was easy," said the girl, rousing to the commonplace.