She had
receded to her defenses and peeped nervously at him from behind them.
"Fort Bridger," he said, his eyes on the twig, "is a big place, a sort
of rendezvous for all kinds of people."
She stared at him, her face alert with apprehension, ready to dart into
her citadel and lower the drawbridge.
"Sometimes there are missionaries stopping there."
"Missionaries?" she exclaimed in a high key. "I hate missionaries!"
This was a surprising statement. David knew the doctor to be a
supporter and believer in the Indian missions, and had often heard his
daughter acquiesce in his opinions.
"Why do you hate them?"
"I don't know. There's another thing you want a reason for. It's
getting cold up here--let's go down by the fire."
She gathered herself together to rise, but he turned quickly upon her,
and his face, while it made her shrink, also arrested her. She had
come to dread that expression, persuasion hardened into desperate
pleading. It woke in her a shocked repugnance, as though something had
been revealed to her that she had no right to see. She felt shame for
him, that he must beg where a man should conquer and subdue.
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