She ran ahead of him, intercepted him, faced him with her back against the door. He swept out a long arm as if to brush her aside. But it wavered and fell. Haggard, troubled, with working face, he stood before her.
“It’s for your sake,” he expostulated.
“If it is for my sake, then do what pleases me.”
“These guerrillas will knife somebody. They’ll burn the house. They’ll make off with you. They’ll do something bad unless we stop them.”
“Let us risk all that,” she importuned.
“But it’s a terrible risk, and it oughtn’t be run,” he exclaimed, passionately. “I know best here. Stillwell upholds me. Let me out, Miss Hammond. I’m going to take the boys and go after these guerrillas.”
“No!”
“Good Heavens!” exclaimed Stewart. “Why not let me go? It’s the thing to do. I’m sorry to distress you and your guests. Why not put an end to Don Carlos’s badgering? Is it because you’re afraid a rumpus will spoil your friends’ visit?”
“It isn’t—not this time.”
“Then it’s the idea of a little shooting at these Greasers?”