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"Didn’t you think you’d have some fun?" asked Frank. "I did."

"But," went on Thomas, "you have to expect that things aren’t going to be what you expect. You have to expect that your convictions will be tested."

I said, "Maybe Branson’s rescuers made a mistake. Maybe they acted too hastily."

That evening, Thomas picked up Mrs. Stowe again, but he didn’t even open the book. He said, "I suppose I’m of a reluctant turn of mind. I like to think I’m evenhanded and judicious, but perhaps I’m just reluctant. Perhaps I’m just one of those who hang back and then make up a good reason to do so. Perhaps I can’t see the moment when it comes."

"What moment?" My tone was a bit sharp. I knew he was talking himself into something, and I didn’t know myself how I felt about what he was trying to talk himself into. What I knew was that we hadn’t had quite enough of those richly married evenings yet, and even as I tried to hold on to them, they were getting away from me. This sensibility made me suddenly breathless and ill. He didn’t answer my question, only looked over at me, surprised at my sharpness and, I could tell, somewhat put off.

I suppose the people of Lawrence, or whoever were responsible, thought they had done a small thing in rescuing Branson. After the killing of Dow, no one knew what would happen to Branson once Coleman and his friends got hold of the man, and the Free Stater was reputed to be hotheaded, to boot, so likely as not he would have gotten himself killed. Therefore the people of Lawrence now did another small thing—they refused to turn Branson over to the "authorities" and also refused to say who had perpetrated the rescue. In retaliation, the Missourians poured over the border and joined the ranks of the territorial militia, which Governor Shannon, apparently in thrall to the tyrant sheriff Jones, ordered out. In other words, they did what they had been itching to do all along, which was to make war on Lawrence!

Here was the end to all the talk of killing, hanging, shooting, and clearing out—they were going to do it.

In the midst of this murder, it got to be December, and we had to admit that it was truly winter. Perhaps because we had had such faith in the advertisements that had brought us to K.T., or perhaps because, as well prepared as we thought we were, we knew we weren’t really prepared enough, we found this hard to believe. Each morning would seem colder than the previous one, and we would get up surprised, but something about the murder made us believe in the cold, too. The two seemed linked.

At any rate, with no preamble, we began discussing whether to stay on the claim or move into town. Frank, who had been home for a few days, complaining that he couldn’t get to Lawrence because the wind was going to blow him away, was all for moving, but Thomas and I were undecided, even though the Bushes and the Jenkinses had decamped a week before and, the last we’d heard, the Holmeses and the Smithsons had been talking about it. We’d heard nothing of the Jameses.

At first, I took the pro position and Thomas the con. I said, "Whatever the chances there for fighting, the only chances here are for freezing."

Thomas’s rejoinder: "The weather is just as likely to moderate as not. Everyone says Kansas has a salubrious and mild climate, but every place has spells of bad weather."

"The weather isn’t bad yet. This is good weather. There’s no snow, the river isn’t frozen, but we still can’t withstand it."

"I think we can get used to it. It’s no use moving to Lawrence; the weather’s no different there, and the Missourians might attack any time."

The next morning, we switched positions. Thomas said, "I ought to be there. Bisket and the Smithsons are there, and the Bushes and Lacey, too."

I said, "I think it’s warmer today. And the sun is shining. If we go there, where do we live? It’s one thing for us all to pile into one house in the summer, when we can spend a lot of time outdoors, and quite another now, all thrown together. And all our things are here."

"At any rate, I