He hated the talks he had to give, but the waiting room was filled with new groups each morning. The private interviews were worse. Most of the women he spoke with were pitifully eager to get away from a hard life in the city; he struggled to tell them they were headed for one that might be worse. Some women were eliminated instantly, for physical reasons. At least five of them would have died before reaching the South Pass, and half a dozen more would not have lasted a year. One of them, a women of thirty with an obvious case of consumption, begged him, “Take me with you! At least I won’t have to die in this place!” A few he had refused because of their attitude. Three of them had been argumentative, fighting for their rights even before they knew whether they had been granted a place on the wagon. Sky had less of a problem turning these away, for he knew that they would make a train unbearable. I’m doing some fellow a favor, he thought.
