She faintly smiled, but her eyes were steady and wide.
“For my health. I’d like to throw in with your outfit. I will cook, keep camp, and pay you well besides.”
“We haven’t no place for a woman, ma’am. You’d best take the stage.”
“No. There’ll be no stage out till morning. I want to make arrangements at once—with you. There are other women in this train.” She flashed a glance around. “And I can take care of myself.”
“If you aim to go to Salt Lake your main holt is Benton and the stage. The stage makes through in four days and we’ll use thirty,” somebody counseled.
“An’ this bull train ain’t no place for yore kind, 171 anyhow,” grumbled another. “We’ve quit roarin’—we’ve cut loose from that hell-hole yonder.”
“So have I.” But she did not turn on him. “I’m never going back. I—I can’t, now; not even for the stage. Will you permit me to travel with you, sir?”
“No, ma’am, I won’t,” rasped Mr. Jenks. “I can’t do it. It’s not in my line, ma’am.”
“I’ll be no trouble. You have only Mr. Beeson. I don’t ask to ride. I’ll walk. I merely ask protection.”
“So do we,” somebody sniggered; and I hated him, for I saw her sway upon her feet as if the words had been a blow.