“That’s the United States Army,” he said, not without reverence.
She made no comment, and they watched the whole line in columns of four, advancing in double time. The rhythmic motion of the khaki legs vaguely touched the Inger with sensuous pleasure.
“Grand!” repeated the girl. “It’s the limit.”
“What do you mean?” he asked, looking round at her.
“When they march,” she said, “I always think: ‘Dead legs, dead legs, dead legs.’ I hate ’em.”
“Women are lame ducks on the war game,” he admitted. “Look-a-here,” he added. “I might as well tell you: I’m goin’ to Europe to get into the fight.”
He nodded. “It’s the only man’s job on the place just now,” he told her. “Everybody else is just hangin’ round, lookin’ on. I want to be in on it.”
She stood very still, and in the half light her face seemed white and suddenly tired.
“Why don’t you ask which side?” he prompted her.
“I don’t care which side,” she answered, and walked back toward the end of the platform.
He kept beside her, curiously beset by the need to follow his spectacular announcement with some explanation. And abruptly he thought that he understood her attitude.
“I s’pose,” he said, shamefacedly, “you’re thinkin’ I won’t be much of a soldier if I behave as I did last night.”
“Oh no,” she said, “I don’t see as it matters much whether they’re shot drunk or shot sober.”
“I donno but they’re better off drunk—they can’t kill so many o’ the others.”
“You don’t understand—” he began, but she cut him short curtly.
“I’ll get it,” he told her. “Barstow—ain’t it?”
“No, I’m not going to Barstow,” she answered. “Get it to Lamy.”
“Lamy!” he cried. “Murderation. _Clear_ east?”
“I’ve counted up,” she explained. “That’s as far as I’ve got the money to get. I can stay there till I earn some to go on with. I’ve got an aunt in Chicago.”
“East!” he said weakly. “Why, I never thought o’ you goin’ East.”
The station platform led with that amazing informality of the western American railway station, to the raw elemental sand of the desert. Within sight of the electric lamps of the station, were the tall flowers of the Yucca and the leaves of the Spanish bayonet and the flare of the spineless cactus under uninterrupted areas of dusky sky, stretched as sand and sky had stretched for countless ages. Of the faint tread of the soldiers, the commands of the captain, the trundle of a truck, the click of the telegraph instrument, those sands and those stars were as unconscious as they had been in the beginning. And abruptly, as he looked at these lifelong friends of his, the Inger felt intolerably alone.