“North Platte!” She laughed merrily. “Dear me, don’t mention North Platte—not in the same breath with Benton, or even Cheyenne. A town of hayseeds and dollar-a-day clerks whose height of sport is to go fishing in the Platte! A young man like you would die of ennui in North Platte. Julesburg was a good town while it lasted. People lived, there; and moved on because they wished to keep alive. What is life, anyway, but a constant shuffle of the cards? Oh, I should have laughed to see you in North Platte.” And laugh she did. “You might as well be dead underground as buried in one of those smug seven-Sabbaths-a-week places.”
Her free speech accorded ill with what I had been accustomed to in womankind; and yet became her sparkling eyes and general dash.
“To be dead is past the joking, madam,” I reminded.
“Certainly. To be dead is the end. In Benton we 31 live while we live, and don’t mention the end. So I took exception to your gallantry.” She glanced behind her, through the door window into the car. “Will you,” she asked hastily, “join me in a little appetizer, as they say? You will find it a superior cognac—and we breakfast shortly, at Sidney.”
From a pocket of her skirt she had extracted a small silver flask, stoppered with a tiny screw cup. Her face swam before me, in my astonishment.
“I rarely drink liquor, madam,” I stammered.
“Nor I. But when traveling—you know. And in high and—dry Benton liquor is quite a necessity. You will discover that, I am sure. You will not decline to taste with a lady? Let us drink to better acquaintance, in Benton.”
“With all my heart, madam,” I blurted.
She poured, while swaying to the motion of the train; passed the cup to me with a brightly challenging smile.
“Ladies first. That is the custom, is it not?” I queried.