“This O’Day is about at the end of his string,” continued the lady. “There are too many people watching him, eager to find him overstepping the letter of the law. I can promise you, Mrs. Koons, that he or his friend, Bill Kyler, will not be long at either Gleasonton or Italee. But come, let us dispose of the lunch while the babies are taking care of themselves.”
She had arranged the repast as daintily as her surroundings would permit. Several discarded railroad ties served as a table. Over these, she had spread napkins. Together the three sat at the improvised table until not a scrap of lunch remained.
“I didn’t know how hungry I was,” said Mrs. Koons. “We have to drive five miles to the station and that gets us up pretty early. An’ by the time I got the children up and dressed and got dressed myself, I hadn’t no time to eat much. I was just settin’ down when pap drove round and told me I should hurry up or we’d miss the train, and I couldn’t miss it, for Sam was expectin’ me to-day. He’s been gettin’ his own meals and he wanted me back home; so I didn’t scarcely finish my coffee. I was expectin’ that I’d be home in time for dinner, and I would if the train hadn’t been late.”
“You can’t get to Italee to-night, then,” said her benefactress. “There’s only one train a day from Gleasonton to Italee and it has gone by this time. They don’t wait on the accommodation.”
“Can’t I? Isn’t there?” Mrs. Koons’ countenance fell. “But I’ve got to get there! There hain’t no one I know in Gleasonton. If it wasn’t for carrying the children, I’d walk. It hain’t more than five miles, and mebbe I’d meet someone going up. The trucks come down pretty often. I’ve got to get there even if I have to walk.” Back of her years of repression, her native independence showed. She had set out to reach Italee, and she meant to. Difficulties like a walk of five miles with two children in her arms might hamper but not deter her.
“Do not worry about that. I get off at Gleasonton, and I’ll get someone to drive you over. The roads are fine now and it will not take long.”
“Yes’m. Oh, thank you! It will be kind of you, I’m sure, for walkin’ with two babies in your arms ain’t very pleasant. Do you live in Gleasonton, ma’am?”
“I’m not living there now. All summer I have been out on the Creighton farm beyond Keating.”
“Hain’t it lonely out there? I’ve driv by. It’s fixed up grand with big porches, and swings, and loads of flowers and all that, but there hain’t a house for miles about. I’d think you’d find it lonely?”
“Not at all. I take my children along, and I’m too busy while I’m there to be lonely.”