“I didn’t know—I had no idea—Wyoming Territory has been mentioned in the newspapers as largely Indian country——”
“At Benton we are only six days behind New York fashions,” she smiled. “You have not been out over the railroad, then, I suspect. Not to North Platte? Nor to Cheyenne?”
“I have never been west of Cincinnati before.”
“You have surely been reading of the railroad? The Pacific Railway between the East and California?”
“Yes, indeed. In fact, a friend of mine, named Stephen Clark, nephew of the Honorable Thurlow Weed formerly of Albany, was killed a year ago by your Indians while surveying west of the Black Hills. And of course there have been accounts in the New York papers.”
“You are not on survey service? Or possibly, yes?”
“A pleasure trip to end of track?”
She evidently was curious, but I was getting accustomed to questions into private matters. That was the universal license, out here.
“The pleasure of finding health,” I laughed. “I have been advised to seek a location high and dry.”