Doyle had not hesitated to express his opinions in Kansas as in Virginia. The few Southern settlers on the Pottawattomie Creek were sympathetic and no trouble had come. But the keen ears of the woman had caught ominous rumors on the plains.
The father and mother sat on a rude board settee which John had built. The boy had nailed it against a black jack close beside the bend of the creek where the ripple of the hurrying waters makes music when the stream is low and swells into a roar when gorged by the rains.
The woman's face was troubled as she listened to the waters. She studied the strong lines of her husband's neck, shoulders and head, with a touch of pride and fear. His tongue was long in a political argument. He had a fatal gift of speech. He could say witty, bitter things if stung by an opponent.
She spoke with deep seriousness:
"I wish you wouldn't talk so much, John—"
"And why not?"
"You'll get in trouble."
"Well, I've been in trouble most of my life. There's no use livin' at all, if you live in fear. I ain't never knowed what it is to be afraid. And I'm too old to learn."
"They say, the Northern men that's passin' into the Territory have got guns and swords. And they say they're goin' to use 'em. They outnumber the Southerners five to one."
"What are they goin' to do with their guns and swords? Cut a man's tongue out because he dares to say who he's goin' to vote for next election?"