While she leaned over the railing and stared curiously at that part of the street which was another country, from the hills away to the west, where were camped soldiers,--the American soldiers,--who prevented the war from slopping over the line now and then into Arizona, came the clear notes of a bugle held close-pressed against the lips of a United States soldier in snug-fitting khaki.

The boom of the sundown salute followed immediately after.

In the street below her, Mexicans and Americans mingled amiably and sauntered here and there, killing time during that bored interval between eating and the evening's amusement.
Just beyond the Mexican boundary, the door of a long, adobe cantina was flung open, and a group of men came out and paused as if they were wondering what they should do next, and where they should go.

Jean looked them over curiously.

Mexicans they were not, though they had some of the dress which belonged on that side of the boundary.
Americans they were; one knew by the set of their shoulders, by the little traits of race which have nothing to do with complexion or speech.
Jean caught her breath and leaned forward.