Madge was filled with horror and admiration and pity, and begged to be allowed to see and bind up the mutilated finger.  But he refused with superior indifference, clinched his bleeding finger in his fist and said it was n’t anything and did n’t hurt, anyway.  Madge’s mother called her away, and straightway there appeared at my door a boy with pale face, quivering lips, and tear-filled eyes, holding up a bloody hand.  I bound up the wound, which was a clean cut chipping off the end of one finger, and he buried his face in my lap and cried.  Soothing and cuddling him, for somehow I felt that was what the child needed, I asked: 

“How did you hurt yourself, Kid?”

“I was making a peg to hang my saddle on, and I chopped my finger with the hatchet.”

I said nothing, but soothed and cuddled him the more, and he sobbed at my knee in sheer enjoyment of the luxury of being babied.  After that I think he took occasion to hurt himself upon every possible opportunity in order that he might come to my room to be taken care of and petted and comforted.  He left all his swagger and bluster and bravado outside, and I babied him to his heart’s content, feeling sure that it was the first time in all his dozen years that this child’s right had come to him.  But he did not allow these private seasons of relaxation, which he trusted me not to betray, to interfere with his double character of knight of prowess with Madge, and of Broncho Bob with the men.

Excitement did not lack at the ranch-house whenever Kid was at home.  If he was sent to help with the milking, one of the cows was sure to kick over a full milk-pail, knock him over with her hoof, or break loose from her restraining ropes, charge around the corral like a wild beast, and crash through one of the house windows or plunge in at an open door.  If he was told to house the geese and chickens for the night, such a commotion ensued as brought the whole household to see if coyotes had broken into the chicken yard.  At sight of him the pet Angora goats fled on their swiftest legs, with a running leap mounted one of the corral sheds, and then sped to what they had learned was the only place of safety, the roof of the house.  And when he was not stirring up the animals, he was playing jokes on the cowboys.  Holy John, a middle-aged, thick-witted fellow, who never knew what had happened to him until the rest were roaring with laughter, was the special butt of his tricks.

One evening the boys were sitting around the kitchen door talking quietly, for Kid was off with Madge, helping her to bury a dead kitten.  Holy John sat in a slouching attitude on the doorsteps, his new sombrero, with a stiff, curled brim, tipped far back on his head.  Kid came in through the corral and stood in the kitchen for a few minutes.  Then he seized the molasses jug and, tiptoeing very softly behind Holy John, filled the brim of his brand-new sombrero with the sticky liquid.  It flowed out over his back and down into his trousers, and Holy John lifted a wondering and bewildered face to see his companions breaking into uproarious mirth.  Then his long-enduring patience was smothered in wrath, and he laid violent hands upon Kid and spanked him before Madge’s eyes.