Heart's Kindred

“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.

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.

He remembered his drunken impression of the night before that there was, before he should leave, something more to do, or to fetch. His hand went to his pocket. Half a dozen silver dollars were there, no more. In his wallet, which he searched under the light, were two five dollar bills. By now he could hear the rumble of the Overland.

Outside the station two or three Mexicans were lounging. Half a dozen renegade Indians were faithfully arriving with their bead chains and baskets. The waiting-room was empty.

The Inger went in the waiting-room and closed the door. The ticket agent stood behind his window, counting that which ticket-agents perpetually count. The Inger thrust his own head and shoulders through the window, and with them went his revolver.

“I’m Inger of Inch,” he said. “I guess you know me, don’t you? Just you give me a through ticket and all the trimmings to Chicago, till I can get to a bank, or I’ll blow all your brains out of you. Can you understand?”

The ticket agent glanced up, looked into the muzzle, and went on quietly counting.

“All right, Mr. Inger,” he said. “I guess the Flag-pole can stand that much. But you hadn’t ought to be so devilish lordly in your ways,” he complained.