"Not so very long. We ought to be in California in five or six weeks."
To have the dreaded reality suddenly brought so close, set at the limit of a few short weeks, grimly waiting at a definite point in the distance, made her repugnance break loose in alarmed words.
"Longer than that," she cried. "The desert's the hardest place, and we'll go slow, very slow, there."
"You sound as if you wanted to go slow," he answered, his smile indulgently quizzical, as completely shut away from her, in his man's ignorance, as though no bond of love and blood held them together.
"No, no, of course not," she faltered. "But I'm not at all sure we'll get through it so easily. I'm making allowance for delays. There are always delays."
"Yes, there may be delays, but we'll hope to be one of the lucky trains and get through on time."
She swallowed dryly, her heart gone down too far to be plucked up by futile contradition [Transcriber's note: contradiction?]. He mused a moment, seeking the best method of broaching a subject that had been growing in his mind for the past week. Frankness seemed the most simple, and he said:
"I've something to suggest to you. I've been thinking of it since we left the Pass. Bridger is a large post. They say there are trains there from all over the West and people of all sorts, and quite often there are missionaries."
"Missionaries?" in a faint voice.
"Yes, coming in and going out to the tribes of the Northwest. Suppose we found one there when we arrived?"