Of Benton I had never heard. It was upon no public maps, as yet. But in round figures, seven hundred miles! Practically the distance from Albany to Cincinnati, and itself distant from Albany over two thousand miles! All by rail.
Benton was, he explained, the present end of passenger service, this August. In another month—and he laughed.
“Fact is, while you’re standing here,” he alleged, “I may get orders any moment to sell a longer ticket. The Casements are laying two to three miles of track a day, seven days in the week, and stepping right on the heels of the graders. Last April we were selling only to Cheyenne, rising of five hundred miles. Then in May we began to sell to Laramie, five hundred and seventy-six miles. Last of July we began selling to Benton, a hundred and twenty miles farther. Track’s now probably fifty or more miles west of Benton and there’s liable to be another passenger terminus to-morrow. So it might pay you to wait.”
“No,” I said. “Thank you, but I’ll try Benton. I can go on from there as I think best. Could you recommend local accommodations?”
He stared, through the bars of the little window behind which lay a six-chambered revolver. 12
“Could I do what, sir?”
“Recommend a hotel, at Benton where I’m going. There is a hotel, I suppose?”
“Good Lord!” he exclaimed testily. “In a city of three thousand people? A hotel? A dozen of ’em, but I don’t know their names. What do you expect to find in Benton? You’re from the East, I take it. Going out on spec’, or pleasure, or health?”
“I have been advised to try Western air for a change,” I answered. “I am looking for some place that is high, and dry.”
“Consumption, eh?” he shrewdly remarked. “High and dry; that’s it. Oh, yes; you’ll find Benton high enough, and toler’bly dry. You bet! And nobody dies natural, at Benton, they say. Here’s your ticket. Thank you. And the change. Next, please.”