There had been “sheep queens” in the stockyards before—raucous-voiced, domineering, sexless, inflated to absurdity by their success—but none with Kate’s personal attractiveness and her utter lack of self-consciousness. As she walked about on the long platform beside the pens, tall, straight, picturesque, with her free movements, her wide gestures when she used her hands, together with her quiet air of authority, she was the most typical and interesting figure that had come out of the far west for a long time.
When the last thing was done that required her personal attention, Kate went to a nearby hotel recommended by one of the employees of the stockyard. It was third-rate and shabby, unpretentious even in its prime, but it looked imposing to Kate, who never had seen anything better than the Prouty House.
The loose tiling clacked as she walked across the office to the clerk’s desk. That person eyed her dubiously as she laid the flour sack containing her belongings on the counter and registered. He saw in Kate only a woman peculiarly dressed, with a tanned and not too clean face, dishevelled hair, weary-eyed, and alone at a late hour. He missed altogether the indefinable atmosphere of character and substantiality which a more discerning and experienced person would have recognized at once.
“Baggage?” curtly, as she returned him the pen.
She indicated the grimy flour sack.
A supercilious eyebrow went up.
“You’ll have to pay in advance. Six bits.”
Kate reddened.
“Is that customary, or because you don’t like my looks?”
Taking umbrage at the asperity of her tone, he replied impudently: