Night fell and the carnage ended. Long trains of ambulances were being driven to the rear; wounded men were dragging themselves along the tracks; others were being helped over the rough road by comrades, or were borne on rudely constructed stretchers to the field hospital, where Red Cross nurses and surgeons were doing their utmost to relieve the suffering. In the field behind them lay those who needed neither the surgeon’s skill nor the nurse’s care. “Here, Jim, give me a lift, will you?” said a soldier at the edge of the field, as he was striving to carry a badly wounded comrade to the rear. The man addressed was limping along and leading a horse which limped even worse than he himself did. The first speaker added quickly: “Where did you get that horse? If he aint Slocum’s ‘Sonny’ I’ll miss my guess.” “Who’s Slocum? I caught the horse running wild on the field. He was wounded then, but I had to get to the front. Here, let’s get him up on the horse,” he said, speaking of the wounded man. Together they managed to place him upon the horse’s back and started on. They had not gone five hundred yards when Sonny stopped short, and, throwing up his head, gave a loud neigh. “What’s up, old man?” asked the man who was leading him. “He acts as though he smelt something,” said the other. “Here, come on; we haven’t got time for you to smell out your fodder to-night,” and he started on. Sonny went a few steps, stopped again, and tried to turn back; but the man now grew impatient, and, giving him a sounding thwack upon his flank, went on down the hill. Again and again he held back and strove to get away from them. Reaching camp they lifted the unconscious burden from Sonny’s back and together bore it into one of the tents. This was Sonny’s chance, and he darted away as he used to do when he heard Bob’s whistle. It was a rough road, little better than a trail. But Sonny heeded naught. One thought filled his mind; one desire dwelt in his heart.