The lieutenant himself did neither, but he argued that his mind was never off it.
Felipa thought it was not quite so bad as that, and she poured herself another cup of the Rio, strong as lye, with which she saturated her system, to keep off the fever.
"You might marry," Landor suggested. "You can always do that when all else fails."
"Who is there to marry hereabouts? And always supposing there were some one, I'd be sent off on a scout next day, and have to ship her back East for an indefinite time. It would be just my blamed luck."
The breakfast humor when the thermometer has been a hundred and fifteen in the shade for long months, is pessimistic. "Don't get married then, please," said Felipa, "not for a few days at any rate. I don't want Captain Landor to go off until he gets over these chills and things."
There was a knock at the door of the tent, and it opened. The adjutant came in. "I say, Landor—"
"I say, old man, shut that door! Look at the flies. Now go on," he added, as the door banged; and he rose to draw a chair to the table.
"Can't stay," said the adjutant, all breathless. "The line's down between here and the Agency; but a runner has just come in, and there's trouble. The bucks are restless. Want to join Victorio in New Mexico. You've both got to get right over there."
It was the always expected, the never ceasing. Landor looked at his wife and stroked his mustache with a shaking hand. His face was yellow, and his hair had grown noticeably grayer.
"You are not fit to go," Felipa said resignedly, "but that doesn't matter, of course."