“Of course.” She laughed shortly. “Benton is now home. We have moved so frequently that I have grown to call almost no place home.”
“I judge then that you are connected, as may happen, with a flexible business,” I hazarded. “If you are in the army I can understand.” 38
“No, I’m not an army woman; but there is money in following the railroad, and that is our present life,” she said frankly. “A town springs up, you know, at each terminus, booms as long as the freight and passengers pile up—and all of a sudden the go-ahead business and professional men pull stakes for the next terminus as soon as located. That has been the custom, all the way from North Platte to Benton.”
“Which accounts for your acquaintance along the line. The trainmen seem to know you.”
“Trainmen and others; oh, yes. It is to be expected. I have no objections to that. I am quite able to take care of myself, sir.”
We were interrupted. A near-drunken rowdy (upon whom I had kept an uneasy corner of an eye) had been careening over the platform, a whiskey bottle protruding from the hip pocket of his sagging jeans, a large revolver dangling at his thigh, his slouch hat cocked rakishly upon his tousled head. His language was extremely offensive—he had an ugly mood on, but nobody interfered. The crowd stood aside—the natives laughing, the tourists like myself viewing him askance, and several Indians watching only gravely.
He sighted us, and staggered in.
“Howdy?” he uttered, with an oath. “Shay—hello, stranger. Have a smile. Take two, one for lady. Hic!” And he thrust his bottle at me. 39
My Lady drew back. I civilly declined the “smile.”
“Thank you. I do not drink.”