TOOMEY DISTINGUISHES HIMSELF
Prentiss sat quite still — the stillness of a man who takes a shock in that way.
"They call her the 'Sheep Queen' but we Old Timers know her as 'Mormon Joe's Kate.' She shipped a while back, and just come home all dolled up. Made a little money, no doubt, but any pinhead could do that, the way prices are. She'll never get 'in,' though."
"'In' where?"
"In society. For a little burg," with pride, "you'd be surprised to know how exclusive they are here." The speech showed what, among other things, the years in Prouty had done to Toomey.
A half-inch of cigar burned to ashes between Prentiss's finger-tips before he spoke.
"So — the Sheep Queen is ostracized?"
"Well — rather!" with unctuous emphasis. "My wife tried to take her up — but she couldn't make it stick. Found it would hurt us in our business, socially, and all that."
Prentiss raised his cigar to his lips and looked at Toomey through slightly narrowed lids which might or might not be due to smoke as he asked:
"Just what was her offense?"
Toomey laughed.
"It would be hard to say as to that. She came here under a cloud, and has been under one ever since. She has no antecedents, no blood, and even in a town like Prouty such things count. Her mother was Jezebel of the Sand Coulee, a notorious roadhouse in the southern part of the state; her father was God-knows-who — some freighter or sheepherder, most like."
"Interesting — quite. Go on."
Toomey did not note the constraint in Prentiss's voice and proceeded with gusto:
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