In the cold waters of the creek he washed his swollen and bloodstained face. The cold water, fresh from the mountain snows, was soothing to the hot bruised flesh even though it made the wounds smart. He looked down into the pool and saw reflected there the image of himself. Beneath the eyes pouches were beginning to form. Soon now he would be a typical dope fiend.
He was still weak from the manhandling that had been given him. Into an inside coat pocket his fingers groped. They brought out with them a small package wrapped in cotton cloth. With trembling hands he made his preparations, bared an arm, and plunged the hypodermic needle into the flesh.
When he took the trail again after his companions, Tug’s eyes were large and luminous. He walked with a firmer step. New life seemed to be flowing into his arteries.
Where the dusty road cut the creek he found the other tramps waiting for him. Their heads had been together in whispered talk. They drew apart as he approached.
Taking note of Cig’s purple eye and bruised face, Tug asked a question. “Was it the big foreman beat you up?”
“You done said it, ’bo,” the crook answered out of the side of his mouth.
“I reckon you got off easy at that,” Tug said bitterly. “The boss bully didn’t do a thing to me but chew me up and spit me out.”
“Wotcha gonna do about it?” Cig growled significantly.
The young fellow’s glance was as much a question as his words. “What can I do but take it?” he asked sullenly.
Cig’s eyes narrowed venomously. He lifted his upper lip in an ugly sneer. “Watch my smoke. No roughneck can abuse me an’ get away with it. I’ll say he can’t.”