“Yes, you will, girlie. You don’t know it now, but I know it and Druce knows it. And when you come back you’ll do as Druce wants you to do, because you’ll know that if you don’t you’ll have to starve again. It’s against human nature to starve. You’ll go back to him. And when you do and Druce is tired of you he’ll sell you for what you are, cattle—his kind of cattle!”
“Oh no!” wailed Elsie. “Not that. Surely in this great city there are places where a friendless girl can find protection!”
Kentucky Lou laughed again but the laugh contained no mirth.
“I thought that too, kid,” she said more gently. “And perhaps—perhaps—if you could find the right people and they believed you they might help you. But they didn’t help me. I went to one of these institutions that advertise to help friendless girls. Yes, I went to them. I had my baby in my arms. And they began by shooting me full of questions that I’d rather die than answer. And me perishing for a kind word and a slap on the back—just something to keep me fighting to be good. They gave me tracts, and sermons and advice. And then my baby died and I didn’t care what happened. I guess I went crazy after that. ‘It’s hell, anyway,’ I says, ‘so here goes.’ And here I am.”
While she spoke Kentucky Lou was fumbling with her dress. Her hand reappeared in a moment with a five dollar bill. She shoved the bill into Elsie’s hand.
“Take that,” she said, “and go. Go as far as you can. It’s all I can do for you and it may save you. I think you’ll come back to Druce but I’m taking a gambler’s chance.”
She took Elsie by the arm, half lifted the stupefied girl to her feet and led her to the door. Impelled by a terror which both blinded and choked her Elsie fled into the gathering darkness without even pausing to thank her benefactor.
Lou returned to the saloon and ordered more whisky.
“Lou,” inquired one of the men, “who’s you’re friend?”
Lou regarded the questioner calmly.