“Easy,” he said. “You mean the eight: fifteen for Barstow?”
“Yes,” she said. “The eight: fifteen.” She had not meant for Barstow, but that, as the farthest eastern destination of those who usually took train from Inch, was the limit of the Inger’s imagining.
“Easy,” he repeated.
The way of descent, in the slanting light, was incredibly lovely. The time had assumed another air. With that low sun, everything was thrown sharply against the sky, like a pattern on a background. Something of the magic of the Northern days lay upon that Southern land.
Once, feeling suddenly articulate, the Inger looked over his shoulder at her, as she followed.
“It’s hell, ain’t it?” he said admiringly.
She understood this as the extreme of expression, anywhere applied.
“Ain’t it?” she agreed fervently.
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.