"Yes, a little. The worst of it is, I keep saying: If so and so happens, then I must do thus and thus, and that is the hardest work in the world. I can deal with actual, well-defined conditions—even riots and mobs—but fighting suppositions is like grappling with ghosts."
"I know what you mean," she replied, quickly. "But I want to ask you—could father be of any help if I telegraphed him to come?"
He sat up very straight as she spoke, but did not reply till he turned her suggestion over in his mind. "No—at least, not now. What troubles me is this: the local papers will be filled with scare-heads to-morrow morning; your father will see them, and will be alarmed about you."
"I will wire him that I am all right."
"You must do that. I consider you are perfectly safe, but at the same time your father will think you ought not to be here, and blame me for allowing you to come in; and, worst of all, he will wire you to come out."
"Suppose I refuse to go, would that be the best of all?" Her face was distinctly arch of line.
His heart responded to her lure, but his words were measured as he answered: "Sometimes the responsibility seems too great; perhaps you would better go. It will be hard to convince him that you are not in danger."
She sobered. "There really is danger, then?"
"Oh yes, so long as these settlers are in their present mood, I suppose there is. Nothing but the life of an 'Injun' will satisfy them. Their hate is racial in its bitterness."
"You think I ought to go, then?"