“It’s not for myself alone that I’m afraid,” she told herself. “It’s for Patsy, Patsy from Kentucky. Who would have thought a girl from the sunny south could be so brave, such a good sport.”
As she thought of the courageous, carefree manner in which Patsy had insisted on the journey, a lump rose in her throat, and she brushed a hand hastily over her eyes.
“And yet,” she asked herself, “ought I to allow her to do it? She’s younger than I, and not so strong. Can she stand the strain?”
Again her mind took up the thought of the perils they must face.
There were wandering tribes of Indians in the territory they must cross; the skulking and oft-times treacherous Indians of the Little Sticks. What if they were to cross the path of these? What if a great band of caribou should come pouring down some mountain pass and, having swallowed up their little herd, go sweeping on, leaving them in the midst of a great wilderness with only their sled-deer to stand between them and starvation.
As if dreaming of Marian’s thoughts, Patsy suddenly turned over with a little sobbing cry, and wound her arms about Marian.
“What is it?” Marian whispered.
Patsy did not answer. She was still asleep. The dream soon passed, her muscles relaxed, and with a deep sigh she sank back into her place.
This little drama left Marian in an exceedingly troubled state of mind.
“We ought not to go,” she told herself. “We will not.” Then, from sheer exhaustion, she too, fell asleep.