He shook his head and turned away. The bitter, sardonic smile again rested like a shadow of evil on his good-looking face. CHAPTER V TUG IS “COLLECTED” Tug followed the rails toward Wild Horse. He groped in an abyss of humiliation and self-disgust. Slacker! The cattleman’s scornful word had cut to the quick. The taste of it was bitter. For he had not always been one. In war days he had done his share. How was it McCrae’s poem ran? “We are the Dead. Short days ago We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow, Loved and were loved, and now we lie In Flanders fields. “Take up our quarrel with the foe: To you from failing hands we throw The torch; be yours to hold it high. If ye break faith with us who die We shall not sleep, though poppies grow In Flanders fields.” Yes, he had kept the faith in France, but he was not keeping it now. The obligation was as binding on him in peace as on the battle-field. He knew that. He recognized it fully. But when the pain in his head began, his mind always flew to the only relief he knew. The drug had become a necessity to him. If the doctors had only let him fight it out from the beginning without help, he would not have become accustomed to the accursed stuff. But what was the use of going over that again and again? He was done for. Why send his thoughts forever over the same treadmill? The flaming sun poured down into the bowl of the valley and baked its contents. He moved from the track to the shade of a cottonwood and lay down. His racing thoughts grew more vague, for the hot sun had made him sleepy. Presently his eyes closed drowsily. They flickered open and slowly shut a second time. He began to breathe deeply and regularly. The sun passed the zenith and began to slide down toward the western hills. Still Tug slept. He dreamed. The colonel was talking to him. “Over the top, Hollister, at three o’clock. Ten minutes now.” He shook himself out of sleep. It was time to get busy. Slowly he came back blinking to a world of sunshine. Two men stood over him, both armed. “Must be one of ’em,” the shorter of the two said. “Sure thing. See his outfit. All rags. We’ll collect him an’ take him back to the ranch.” They were cowboys or farmhands, Tug was not sure which. He knew at once, however, that their intentions were not friendly. “What do you want?” he asked. “You,” the short, stocky one answered curtly. He wore a big broad-rimmed hat that was both ancient and dusty. “Interesting. You a sheriff? Got a warrant for me?” The little man raised the point of his thirty-eight significantly. “Ain’t this warrant enough?” “What’s the trouble? What d’you want me for?” “Tell him, Dusty,” the lank cowboy said. “All right, Burt.” To the tramp he said roughly: “We’ll learn you how to treat a lady. Get up. You’re gonna trail back to the Diamond Bar K with us.” “You’ve got the wrong man,” explained Tug.