“‘Dishonorably dismissed from the service you have disgraced’--‘Herewith degraded from rank,’” he added, another sentence of the fearful condemnation flashing into his thoughts. He did not know how long he had traveled. He knew--some sixth sense told him--he was moving in the right direction for home. Home! The lively little Ohio town through whose main street he had ridden so proudly, at the head of his company, not two years before! What would his return be like? The fancy stung Brinton to new anguish. He halted; and was minded to shift his course for some refuge where his name and his disgrace would not be known; where he could begin all over again. Then came the thought--not of his stay-at-home son, but of the grandson he had never seen. And into the man’s burning hot eyes came a mist of unbidden tears. His baby grandson--and Brinton plodded along his former course. He expected little sympathy from his severely correct if unwarlike son; the worthy youth who had so smugly refused to join his father in going to the front on the plea that the business would suffer if both senior and junior partner were away for so long a time. But the grandson-- Brinton passed his hand over the unshaven stubble of his chin; and sought to gauge by its length the time his march had lasted. He seemed to have been tramping for an eternity on swollen and tender feet under a murderous hot sun. Yet for days he continued; once bartering his watch for another batch of _tortillas_. At last nature gave out. For nearly a day he had found no water. His lips were fevered, his tongue unduly large and as dry as parchment. There was but the fragment of one crumbling and greasy _tortilla_ left in his pocket. He dared not eat it, faint though he was, lest it add to his already unbearable thirst. He noted, too, that he was lurching and reeling in his walk. It appeared to him that the buzzards that floated above him had begun to take a new and personal interest in his movements. They were more numerous than on earlier days, and they seemed to follow him; flying very low. So had he seen them track a sick cavalry horse. Before him, as dusk fell, rose a low ridge. Beyond it, evidently, was a dip in the rolling ground, and beyond that rose a higher ridge. At sight of the two prospective climbs, Brinton’s heart turned sick within him. Then he set his teeth and breasted the first rise. After an interminable time he gained its low summit and stood, panting loudly, to rest. In the gulch just below he saw a fire twinkling through the gloom. Brinton took a step forward. His awkward foot trod on a rolling stone. Losing his balance and too weak to recover it, he pitched helplessly forward, fell headlong, and rolled down the steep little slope. As he lay at the bottom, breathless and half-stunned, unseen hands lifted him none too gently to his feet. A glare of light was in his eyes. He stood there, swaying, blinking, supported by the two men who had picked him up.