“No.”
“You’re sick to think of a little Greaser blood staining the halls of your home?”
“No!”
“Well, then, why keep me from doing what I know is best?”
“Stewart, I—I—” she faltered, in growing agitation. “I’m frightened—confused. All this is too—too much for me. I’m not a coward. If you have to fight you’ll see I’m not a coward. But your way seems so reckless—that hall is so dark—the guerrillas would shoot from behind doors. You’re so wild, so daring, you’d rush right into peril. Is that necessary? I think—I mean—I don’t know just why I feel so—so about you doing it. But I believe it’s because I’m afraid you—you might be hurt.”
“You’re afraid I—I might be hurt?” he echoed, wonderingly, the hard whiteness of his face warming, flushing, glowing.
“Yes.”
The single word, with all it might mean, with all it might not mean, softened him as if by magic, made him gentle, amazed, shy as a boy, stifling under a torrent of emotions.
Madeline thought she had persuaded him—worked her will with him. Then another of his startlingly sudden moves told her that she had reckoned too quickly. This move was to put her firmly aside so he could pass; and Madeline, seeing he would not hesitate to lift her out of the way, surrendered the door. He turned on the threshold. His face was still working, but the flame-pointed gleam of his eyes indicated the return of that cowboy ruthlessness.
“I’m going to drive Don Carlos and his gang out of the house,” declared Stewart. “I think I may promise you to do it without a fight. But if it takes a fight, off he goes!”