It was not yet seven o’clock when they emerged from the last cañon, and tramped across the sage brush toward the town. There the lights were slowly shining out, and all the tawdry, squalid play of the night was beginning, as night after night it begins in the ugly settlements where men herd on the Great Desert under solemn skies. As the first sound of rattling music came to the man and the woman, she turned to him. “Is big towns like little ones, do you know?” she asked. He reflected, remembered San Francisco, and replied: “Yes,” he said, “I s’pose so, mostly. But the parts where the folks try to be nice,” he added, vindictively, “are worse’n this and Inch.” “Why?” she demanded, in surprise. “Because,” he said, “they get too nice. They’re slush nice,” he explained it. She mulled this. “I saw a lady, once,” she said. “She got off at Inch to mail a letter. Her hair was combed pretty and she had her gloves on and her shoes fit her feet—I donno. She must of come from somewheres,” she added vaguely. He was silent and she tried to be clear. “She wasn’t good-dressed like Beautiful Kate and them,” she added anxiously. “She spoke nice, too. I heard her get a stamp from Leadpipe Pete. Her words come so—easy.” He nodded. “There are them,” he said from his experience. “But not many.” As they approached the station some stragglers were gathering to wait for the train, and the two remained near the far end of the platform. A monotonously repeated command forced itself to their attention. On a stretch of bare, hard-trodden sand, a company of the town guard was drilling in the twilight. About forty slim, loose-jointed youths were advancing and wheeling under the direction of a stocky, middle-aged man who walked like a rooster and shouted indistinguishably, in the evident belief that the tone was the thing. The Inger walked to the edge of the platform, and stared at them. “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. “Ain’t it grand?” he said. “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.” He smiled tolerantly. “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.” “On purpose?” she asked, incredulously. 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.