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.” While he was groping at this, she added: “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 better get my ticket,” she said. “I’ll get it,” he told her. “Barstow—ain’t it?” “No, I’m not going to Barstow,” she answered. “Get it to Lamy.” He faced her in astonishment. “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. “What do you want to go East for?” he demanded. “Chicago’s the only place I’ve got anybody I could go to,” she said. “But that ain’t the reason,” she added. “I want to get as far as I can, ’count of Bunchy.” She looked back at the group gathering at the station to see the train come in. “You better get the ticket just to Albuquerque,” she said. “Somebody might try to follow me up.” “Albuquerque nothing,” he said roughly. “I’ll buy you your ticket right through—to Chicago.” He went toward her. “Don’t go—don’t go!” he said. She looked at him, intently, as if she were trying to fathom what he would have said. But in that intentness of her look, he saw only her memory of the night before. He drew sharply back, and turned away. “I hate for you to go ’way off there alone,” he mumbled. Across the desert, clear against the dusk of the mountains, a red eye came toward them. She saw it. “Oh quick,” she said. “There’s the train. Get it just to Albuquerque. I’ll be all right.” She gave him a knotted handkerchief, and he took it and ran down the platform. This handkerchief he could give back to her as she was leaving, and he would of course buy the ticket through— He stopped short on the platform. “What with, you fool?” he thought.