"You are heartily welcome, madam," I assured. "There is air enough for us both." "The car is suffocating," she said. "However, the worst is over. We shall not have to spend another such a night. You are still for Benton?" "By all means." And I bowed to her. "We are fellow-travelers to the end, I believe." "Yes?" She scanned me. "But I do not like that word: the end. It is not a popular word, in the West. Certainly not at Benton. For instance----" We tore by another freight waiting upon a siding located amidst a wide debris of tin cans, scattered sheet-iron, stark mud-and-stone chimneys, and barren spots, resembling the ruins from fire and quake. "There is Julesburg." "A town?" I gasped. "The end." She smiled. "The only inhabitants now are in the station-house and the graveyard." "And the others? Where are they?" "Farther west. Many of them in Benton." "Indeed? Or in North Platte!" I bantered. "North Platte!" She laughed merrily. "Dear me, don't mention North Platte--not in the same breath with Benton, or even Cheyenne. A town of hayseeds and dollar-a-day clerks whose height of sport is to go fishing in the Platte! A young man like you would die of ennui in North Platte. Julesburg was a good town while it lasted. People _lived_, there; and moved on because they wished to keep alive. What is life, anyway, but a constant shuffle of the cards? Oh, I should have laughed to see you in North Platte." And laugh she did. "You might as well be dead underground as buried in one of those smug seven-Sabbaths-a-week places." Her free speech accorded ill with what I had been accustomed to in womankind; and yet became her sparkling eyes and general dash. "To be dead is past the joking, madam," I reminded. "Certainly. To be dead is the end. In Benton we live while we live, and don't mention the end. So I took exception to your gallantry." She glanced behind her, through the door window into the car. "Will you," she asked hastily, "join me in a little appetizer, as they say? You will find it a superior cognac--and we breakfast shortly, at Sidney." From a pocket of her skirt she had extracted a small silver flask, stoppered with a tiny screw cup. Her face swam before me, in my astonishment. "I rarely drink liquor, madam," I stammered. "Nor I. But when traveling--you know. And in high and--dry Benton liquor is quite a necessity. You will discover that, I am sure. You will not decline to taste with a lady? Let us drink to better acquaintance, in Benton." "With all my heart, madam," I blurted. She poured, while swaying to the motion of the train; passed the cup to me with a brightly challenging smile. "Ladies first. That is the custom, is it not?" I queried. "But I am hostess, sir. I do the honors. Pray do you your duty." "To our better acquaintance, then, madam," I accepted. "In Benton." The cognac swept down my throat like a stab of hot oil. She poured for herself.