She Returns From War by Lee Collins

her throat at the thought. Despite her sorrow, Victoria's lips curled upward in a small smile. Were it not for his ambition, she would not be standing where she was. His fortune had enabled her to cross oceans and continents.
    The platform shook beneath her. Luggage boys were unloading the freight car, tossing bags and suitcases out into the sun. Already the crowd of passengers pressed in around the growing pile, searching through it for their belongings. Victoria watched them from beneath her parasol. Once the bustle subsided, she would ask one of the bag boys to help her along to the nearest hotel, promising a smile and a tip for his efforts. As she watched the crowd thin, she wondered idly just what sort of accommodations a town like this had to offer. A glance over the haphazard group of buildings standing nearest the station seemed to promise that they wouldn't be much. No matter. She wouldn't be here long. If all went well, she and the Oglesby woman would be leaving on the next day's train.
    The sun drifted lazily toward the western horizon, drawing shades of deep blue and violet into the sky. Drops of sweat stood out on Victoria's forehead as she stood in front of the sand-blasted building. The streets of Albuquerque had not yet relinquished the afternoon heat, and the people wandering them moved like plague sufferers and smelled worse. She had seldom been surrounded by such an overpowering cloud of human stink. Even in the street, the stench of sweat, spit, and animals pressed up against her. It put her on edge; she could almost feel it crawling up her legs and under the neckline of her dress. How any woman, even one as uncouth as Cora Oglesby, could stand living in such a miasma confounded her.
    More confusing, however, were the words painted on the sign that hung above the door in front of her. In bold black letters, it proclaimed the name of the establishment:  Ben's Print Shop.  Although Victoria had never seen a printing press, she knew right away that this particular building had never set ink to a page. The men passing through the batwing doors couldn't possibly be literate. They peered at the world from beneath wide-brimmed hats, their eyes bleary from sun and liquor. Many wore guns in low-slung holsters that dangled from their belts, the leather cracked and faded. She had never seen so many guns in one place, and that men such as these carried them made her uneasy. What if they decided to turn them on her? As a young girl, she'd heard stories of holdups and shoot-outs in the American West, but she'd only half-believed them. Now, in the presence of men who looked as though they might re-enact such stories at the prompting of a single booze-soaked thought, she suddenly felt very alone. The memory of James Townsend's round, kindly face sprang to her mind's eye, and she fervently wished she had taken his advice and brought along an escort.
    No, she told herself. She could handle herself. Cora Oglesby made a home for herself among such men. Surely Victoria could brave them for a day or two.
    As if on cue, a scraggly-looking man tumbled through the batwing doors and into the street. Victoria backed up a few paces, startled. Before the man could pull himself together, an empty bottle sailed through the door, shattering on the packed earth only a few feet from his head. A voice from inside cracked like an old whip as it shouted curses at the man. Victoria could only watch as the man picked himself up and shambled off down the street. As he disappeared into the general bustle in the street, a grim satisfaction welled up inside her. Although the voice from the door sounded as old and tough as a rusted iron cog, there was no mistaking that it belonged to a woman.
    The other passersby didn't give the commotion a second glance, but Victoria could feel them gawking at her when she turned her back. Worse, she couldn't exactly blame them. Choosing from among her finer traveling dresses to wear in such a rustic place