"Whiteacre? Doggone me if it ain't good to meet a Whiteacre boy. I was raised there, son! Joe Lunids is my name."
"I'm Texas Lou," said the girl.
There was a subdued chuckle from the darkness.
"You sound kind of young for a name like that, kid. Leastwise, your voice is tolerable young."
"I'm old enough," said Jig aggressively.
"Sure, sure," placated the other. "Sure you are."
"Besides," she went on, "I wanted a name that I could grow up to."
It brought a hearty burst of laughter from the wagon.
"That's a good one, Texas. Have a drink?"
She set her teeth over the refusal that had come to her lips and, reining near, reached out for the flask. The driver passed over the bottle and at the same time lighted a match for the apparent purpose of starting his cigarette. But Jig nodded her head in time to obscure her face with the flopping brim of her sombrero. The other coughed his disappointment. She raised the bottle after uncorking it, firmly securing the neck with her thumb. After a moment she lowered it and sighed with satisfaction, as she had heard men do.